In Chapter Fourteen of my work in progress, I share my encounters with a few priests who did not live up to their role as spiritual leaders of their flock. Due to the sensitive nature of the topic, I’ve adapted a prosaic narrative style. Do let me know if this style works. Inspired by the Biblical quote heading the chapter, I’ve given them the fictitious names of fish.

While not all priests are predators, their fellow priests, bishops, and archbishops are complicit by their silence and cover-ups.

Chapter Fourteen: The Men of God

And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.
Matthew 4: 19, King James Bible (1611)

I speak of the Men of God. In the name of God, they place burdens on our stooped backs they themselves are unable to bear. We place them high on pedestals, too high to maintain their balance. We treat them like gods—clinging to their every word, kneeling to their demands. Yet, they are made of the same flesh, given to the same weaknesses, sharing the same desires.

On the fringes of a waning British Empire, I grew up hearing rumors—ripples among women of the faithful in our local church. Father like to feel-up the altar boys. No word in the newspapers. No accusation in the court of law. Victims silenced with shame and disbelief.

******

As a young Catholic nun, I came to know a handsome white priest, Father Lionfish. A new arrival from England, early thirties, a baritone voice to quicken the female heart. Assigned to host the Catholic radio broadcast prayer service, to begin the day of the faithful. What a shock to hear rumblings among the nuns: Father is molesting the altar boys. Two years of molestation.The predatory lionfish transferred to another parish…another country. Young, tormented souls left behind.

No fanfare. No warning to the faithful. Predator priests come and go, with impunity from the law. Answerable only to the Church and their god.

******

Celeste and I, new candidates in the religious community, sent to explore the isolated world of our sisters in the bush, Guyana’s hinterland. The church and presbytery just a few minutes’ walk away from the convent and school. Father Haddock, a lone parish priest, stood at arms-length distance when talking to us—fearful of the temptations of Eve. A British Jesuit in his forties, he served his flock, the indigenous people. During long dark nights in the bush, his Amerindian temptress, housekeeper and cook, stole his heart. He left the priesthood, quietly married her, and returned to England.

******

Two young female novices and four Jesuit brothers celebrating the completion of one year of intense religious training. Under the watchful eyes of a British Jesuit priest and young local professed nun. A weekend break at the Jesuits’ rustic holiday house. Far from prying eyes in a hilly sandy region of red water creeks and sparse tree-covered slopes. At nightfall, mosquitoes and sandflies came out to feast on human blood. My blood. I retired early to find refuge under a mosquito net.

At breakfast next morning, I was surprised in the kitchen. Father Grouper—my first love, seminarian-turned-priest—appeared. As I slept, he and another priest had arrived, uninvited, during the night. On fire with desires of the flesh, he pinned me to the wall. His groping hands massaged my breasts. His mouth sought mine. Stop it, Father! His raging male hormones deafened him to my pleas. Tears of shame and anger rolled down my cheeks.

You heard her. Let her go, Father. A calm and firm voice. I’m sorry, Sister. My friend is not himself. The young local priest led my sexual assailant from the kitchen.

The room swirled. I gripped the kitchen sink, afraid of falling.

My two female companions comforted me: You’re lucky you weren’t around last night. We had it much worse. We never reported the predator priest to our Novice Mistress. We never went to that isolated place again.

An unhappy wife calmed Father Grouper’s raging male hormones. A woman older than my mother, seeking marital counsel from her parish priest. She left her husband and children to become his wife. His father was distraught: You leaving the priesthood for a second-hand woman?

******

One of our parish priests, Father Snapper, a Guyanese in his forties, drowned his demons with alcohol. The faithful whispered: Father is a drunk-man. Keep your girl children close. Did he care? By chance one day, we crossed paths on the narrow stairway to the parish hall. So close his rum breath flared my nostrils.

You should stop drinking, Father. It’s not good for you.

Mind your damn business!

The blast burned my cheeks. Who was I to challenge a Man of God?

******

Under the thumb of her caustic, menopausal boss, our beloved Sister Angela’s day-to-day working life became a hell on Earth. Mother Superior chose Father Pacu as her spiritual guide during an emotional crisis. A respected Man of God among the faithful. A man almost twice Angela’s age.

I’m in love with you, he confessed to Angela one day.

What does he want from me, Angela asked me and Celeste.

She ended their weekly sessions. The Man of God left her with guilt for his predicament.

******

September 1976. I volunteered to serve in the Interior Mission. Far from the capital, in Guyana’s northwest tropical rainforest region. Father Mahseer, our Jesuit parish priest, failed me when I needed him most. A man in his forties, an Indian National, small in stature. Spiritual director of my work colleague, a white American nun in her thirties, struggling with her demons.

They spent hours together. In his jeep in the convent driveway on their return after a day administering to his flock. Alone together in the convent community room. Her face lit up in his presence. She reveled in their exclusive relationship.

Father Mahseer’s request to assist in parish work lasted for only one month. No explanation. What had I done wrong? Was my Bible Study class not appropriate for the locals? Did they complain about me?

The American nun nailed me to the cross when I became acting headteacher of the regional high school where we both taught. To Mother Superior in the capital, she reported my alleged crimes of shameless dalliances. Father Mahseer and our septuagenarian parish priest included. Through it all, Father Mahseer remained silent. What lies did she tell him about me? Did he defend my honor? Did he defend my position as acting headteacher? My accuser brought me to my knees. I was no match for her relentless whipping.

August 1977. A tropical storm raged over the rainforest the day I left the Interior Mission for the capital. The last to board the 19-seat Twin Otter aircraft, two hours behind schedule. I took the only available seat…next to Father Mahseer. The Devil and God’s Archangel battled for our lives, suspended in the dark clouds, rolling with the waves of turbulent air currents. During the one-hour flight, we sat shoulder-to-shoulder like strangers before Saint Peter at the Gate of Heaven. He knew I was leaving my teaching post. Yet not a word escaped his lips. Nor mine. A Man of God compromised by an exclusive relationship.

******

My disillusionment and break with the Catholic Church lay years ahead in Brazil. At the time, the country held the world’s largest Roman Catholic population. Never had I witnessed such extreme poverty among working-class people. Where were the Men of God?