[A shorter version of this article first appeared here at LewRockwell.com]

Just got done reading about a man who claims he was raped years ago, when a teenager, by a Catholic priest. He recently shot the priest. My use of the word "claims" is not as sarcastic as it may sound. However, I still have my doubts about this whole deal.

Except as it may possibly keep me from being accused of launching a twisted apologia for a dear institution, try to ignore that I'm not a religious guy. My puzzlement at some of these claims is derived from putting myself in the position of the victims at their age during the alleged incidents. And for the record, I am not talking about 5-year-olds here.

One of my grade school teachers was a pervert. We all knew it. He would touch himself habitually through his trousers, curse, and say things that often made it an adventure to be in school. Amidst some natural disrespect for his obvious weaknesses, most of us dug this guy as what adults would be like if they weren't so busy being phony. He let us be ourselves in that class, and it was, frankly, a blast — as school goes. We were always amazed that everybody, even the mousier kids, kept his secret. Could never happen in these latter days of achievement through snitchery.

Some of the boys in the class got invited to his apartment for a Saturday afternoon of helping him shop for, and install, a large fish aquarium. He made us all a good spaghetti dinner. While cooking he asked me to pour him a scotch, an incident which, when later relayed casually to my momentarily horrified parents (teetotaling evangelical preacher / church organist duo), threatened to seriously harsh my mellow.

But their reaction after quickly recovering was not to consider running to the school principal to perform a tantrum. Rather, they told me that they didn't want me pouring alcoholic drinks for people, and that I should refuse were the situation to arise again. Note that they did not prohibit me from going over to "Mr. Blue's" again. They did not freak out. They gave me their opinion, understood by all involved to be an order, and realized that I was the party best equipped to solve that problem in the future. If it distressed them beyond that, I'm not aware of it.

During that same visit to Mr. Blue's apartment, a couple of the kids snooped their way into his naughty magazine stash. That part of the visit was not mentioned later to my parents. Wow! Talk about an advanced education. Those were some serious magazines. Well, our teacher eventually saw what had been done (not difficult since there was now a crowd of 6 or 7 of us gathered round gawking), snatched up the mags, and left us with only fleeting images to discuss for the rest of the year.

It was occasionally mulled during bull sessions that perhaps our teacher, obvious lover of females though he was, made forays across the . . . well, you know, toward the shaky side of the fence — a condition we were free in those days to consider to be truly, quite queer. I'll even guess that, given the right conditions, our teacher might have had designs on young boys, though he was not aggressive about it. We knew some of his friends and family, and all of us were free to drop by his place whenever. Several of us did so, up until early high school. He would drive us by a fast food joint and give us a couple bucks for helping maintain his aquarium. It was always good to see our crazy ex-teacher, though a couple of times when we stopped by during those years he tried to ask personal, sexual questions.

While they were not propositional questions, we exhibited clear discomfort and resistance when he went in that direction. We steered away and he dropped it. Our instincts knew where he was apparently headed, but we also knew something which I believe is known to most people accosted by less-than-homicidal perpetual children. This man, unconventional as he may have been, would not have inflicted himself on any of us. We were comfortable hanging around him despite the odd testing of the waters. Say what you want about adults of that ilk, accuse them of preying on defenseless kids, curse them to heaven — whatever makes your world tidy. I know such talk, in many cases, to be hogwash when the complete equation is parsed, and I know it because I was a kid and witnessed what was probably the primordial environment for the sad sack whiner tales which I allege some of the incidents in the press to be, strong negative influences of the parents notwithstanding.

Many years later I heard that our beloved, wacky teacher had been fired for sexual advances toward one of his young students. My reaction then, as now, was that our teacher had finally said something to a guy who didn't get it — maybe to one who was too interested in the possibility to know how to handle it. We viewed such a kid, non-existent in our class, as a weak sister. The guys from that class I still knew were a little ticked off at whoever had reported Mr. Blue and effectively ended the career of a man we regarded, overall, as a wonderful teacher, and certainly a festive blip in the stilted career of the average grade schooler. Without knowing more details, it was our opinion that his was a career ended for no good purpose or result, at the hands of the overly sensitive. We were also surprised it had been so long in coming; Mr. Blue was not a discrete or prudent man.

On a summer afternoon after my first year of college, I was walking away from a broken '69 Ford Galaxy 500 during rush hour on the DC beltway when a man, probably early 30's, pulled over and offered me a ride. He said he felt safe doing so because I was carrying what looked like school notebooks, and I wasn't hitching. I couldn't care less, because two minutes after my car had died I'd been saved, and was going to make it to work on time. Amazing luck.

Wasn't too long into the ride that I started to get serious hinky vibes. Here I was your basic 18-year-old dork, and the driver had awkwardly brought up how he was an agent who got photo modeling jobs for young men. Would that be something I was interested in? He said he could imagine me doing quite well as a model.

Ha! I'm laughing out loud right now just thinking about some disgusting creep trying that silly approach on anybody who wasn't obvious, conventional model material. Told him that it wasn't something that floated my boat, but I really appreciated the ride, and — what do you know — there's my exit right there, and you can just let me off on the side of the beltway. Thanks. Goodbye.

Walking the mile or so to work, I was floored that this was apparently the shtick which lulled mythical boys into who knows what. Was that really how it happens? Are humans molded in such disparate form as to allow something so pathetic to work?

When in Mr. Blue's class we hadn't even hit our teens, but we knew well how to behave, and with sufficient stamina. We remained clear of uncomfortable directions. We laughed about it among ourselves, deriding him behind his back for his apparent leanings, while also respecting him for good qualities which were not present in the average teacher — things like how he recognized and encouraged with each of us, male and female, our individual strengths; the formal work he'd let us slide on if we knew the material; the times he would let students tackle a new subject in advance and then teach the class under his supervision; and how he didn't sweat us cursing now and then, getting stupid, and being kids.

Oh, he had limits, but he also had spirit. I used to tell my parents some of the different ways he taught subjects, and my father, ever the scientific observer of the art of teaching, would explain why what he'd done in a situation showed commendable technique. Parents were big fans of Mr. Blue. Those living near the school used to laugh about hearing him yell at his students from across the grounds, berating another round of misfits. In warm weather when the windows were open, his voice traveled for blocks. He was a shouter. He also slammed yardsticks on desks, ruining one every now and then, wood flying up and hitting the ceiling. No splinter lawsuits.

During our exposure to this man, over several years, we were never worried in the least for our health, our sexuality, or our well being. We were resistant. Were we inexperienced? Absolutely. Stupid? No. Gullible? Not so bad. Homosexual? Not that I know of. The key difference between this man and a priest was that our parents didn't send us into that classroom with the imprimatur of our teacher's innate superiority ringing in our heads like bells. They did not routinely give the impression that they savored his heavenly qualities, or that they desired us to look to him as an example in all things. They didn't hold him up as a mysterious, magical being, only a slightly lower intermediary in the ragged-human — saintly-priest — God-the-Son — God-the-Father comm link. We were not instructed to give ourselves to this man, but instead to respect his authority within reason.

I'll cut to the chase here and just state it flat out. The blame for most of these priestly abuses rests squarely on the priests, abdicating parents, and the resultant "do what thou will to me" children who were encouraged into a distressing victim state by hobgoblins of blessed, superior righteousness and other mumbo jumbo, without scriptural basis, sometimes directed toward some of the weakest examples of human drivel ever to traverse the pike.

Are there good men in the church? Yes. However, the conditions of the church, just as with the state, foster an environment where, to paraphrase Boston T. Party, anybody gravitating toward such a "vocation" would be better considered a suspect. In many cases the last people we should want to be cops, priests, and politicians are the very people elbowing for the positions. Find a man reluctant to take the role — a man somewhat goaded into it — and you have a possible candidate for success. But remove or lose your ability to discriminate in all situations, and you are welcome to the incidents base human nature tosses your way.

I've seen power of authority over the submissive in its pure form. One Sunday many years ago my father got up in front of his congregation of 700 to announce that he was going to resign, attend school, get a doctorate in ministry, and trust the Lord to support his family — all with no job of record. We were to live, as he put it, "by faith". My description of it, uncharitably, is that we lived via the gullibility of suckers, but damn if it didn't work just the same! For over 5 years my father did not have a regular gig. During the entire time scores of families made and honored long-term commitments to send him a check every month. Some of those people could barely afford diapers for their kids, but the money came in nonetheless, and regularly. There was usually a willing person or two, often skilled in the profession, to handle accounting — gratis, of course. Such people served for years with great devotion to the task.

All the while people would dote, inviting our family over for dinner, putting great weight upon every word the preacher uttered. They bought us gifts. They couldn't get enough, those sheep. And amazingly enough, far from it being considered disparagement, you could get away with calling them sheep right to their faces. They loved it! Knocks me out just thinking about it. Sheep, clamoring to be led. When I think of the things you could pull on people in that state, I'd say they got a pretty fair shake from the preacher man — a bit like the United States in the hands of Thomas Jefferson; remarkable under the circumstances. By abandoning themselves to the shepherd, they invited their own corruption and also that of the shepherd. And it did visit both shores.

For argument I'll admit that society may require sheep, though I'm not convinced of it. But anybody claiming the role of a sheep should have the sense to know exactly what his station in life is. He is . . . well HELL, he's a fucking sheep for crying out loud! Can one think of anything worse for a human to be? I cannot.

Yet daily, relentlessly, we are pummeled with the claimed virtue of such a disgusting state — of the helpless, and the service they perform in their helplessness. We are assaulted by "the homeless" in the street (urban outdoorsmen) who throw "the homeless" at you like it's an estimable position wrapped in a baseball — as if their condition is something to shoot for. It is their claim on your life.

"Can you spare some change for the [cue organ music] hohhhhmlessss, sistah?"

Still can't believe that line works on anybody.

And the tourist parents trundle over and let their kids see them throwing a few coppers at the virtuous do-nothings. There's leadership by example for you. Do these saints-for-30-seconds ever stop to think, in the market of cause and effect, whether their actions are helping the urban outdoorsmen to leave the street, or instead keeping them there, sometimes until death? It's cruel to make such a miserable existence even remotely profitable. They are closing the final gap in the great circle of contemporary helplessness, teaching their kids a degraded standard of what humans are capable of.

To the collectivist, humans are most capable of need, blame, and an insistence that our value be measured by the weight of our human flesh. Everything else is luck — sometimes better the worse it is.

In the case of the aforementioned, belatedly defiant young man with the gun, is it possible that he aimed at the wrong party? Probability points toward his parents, or lack of them, as the crucial link to his wretchedness. For had it not been the priest sinking this lost soul, it would eventually have been a car salesman, a boss, or an addiction to cigarettes. Well, no matter; and his one decisive action was simply temporary insanity — a blackout no less — for which the suitably chastened old boy is serving out a solid eight months of home detention. We need more stalwart men such as this, more prisons, more taxes, more self-help books, and a perpetual fusillade of olly olly in-come-free's.

"In youth he whispered to his Lord, 'I am no more.' By his will was he no longer."