But it seems now that asking him that question may have sparked some thought about it on his part, to judge by these public statements by Robertson since:
Pope must answer for crimes against humanity
Robertson wants Pope to resign over child abuse
and even more fully in his new book, The Case of the Pope: Vatican Accountability for Human Rights Abuses (see review)

I confess to being somewhat chuffed if my question 18 months ago brought two such significant things as clergy abuse and the attention of Robertson together.  But while I accept that the Catholic Church is in a somewhat peculiar position in terms of its claim to statehood, I hope that Robertson won’t confine his attentions to the Catholic denomination alone.  Anglicans, after all, claim the Queen as the head of their church, and she vowed at her coronation to “maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the Church of England, and the doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established in England”; does that mean victims of Anglican clergy could accuse the Queen of supporting human rights abuses – or, at the very least, turning a blind eye to them?  Will Robertson come to the aid of clergy abuse victims of other denominations and argue that ALL clergy sexual abuse (and its cover-up) is an abuse of human rights under international law?

There’s just one small point: the Irish report made it clear that the Vatican was complicit in the cover-up.  Presumably they hope no-one will realise that, and they’ll be able to place all the blame on the local bishops.

Haines is now on “administrative leave”, but one has to hope that the Catholic Church will defrock him rather than follow his example of stupidity and immorality by allowing him to remain a priest.

There are two main problems for me in going to church: one is the language, building, atmosphere – the whole “church” experience – that makes it impossible for me to walk into church without feeling terror (literally).  The second problem is the attitude (which is intertwined with the theology).

The first problem – of language, building, atmosphere, etc – encompasses so much that church people take for granted.  A few examples:
1) the building itself.  Obviously, the more similar a church is to the one where I was abused, the more dangerous it feels, but it goes for any church.  Have you ever had a car accident, and been extra nervous at that spot the next few times you went through it, or even other spots like it? Multiply that a million times and you’ll begin to have a faint idea of what I mean.
2) closing my eyes to pray (and bowing my head, and kneeling [in churches where that happens]) are all danger signals for me.  This one sometimes isn’t too bad, because everyone else has their eyes closed so they don’t see that I don’t
3) the collection (or offering, if you want to call it that).  I choose not to financially support a system that abused me.  But when the plate, or bag, or what-have-you is passed along the pews, it is very obvious to those around you that you aren’t contributing.  And those who don’t contribute, by definition, are considered to be outside the clique that is the parish family.
4) passing the peace is a danger time.  I’m VERY protective of my physical and psychological boundaries when I’m in an unsafe space to start with, but it’s incredibly hard to make that point to people who think passing the peace is good.  I can’t shake hands, or say the formatted response.  I can manage a half-smile and a thankyou sometimes, but that’s it.  Mostly, the feeling of threat it carries for me will put me in tears anyway.  So I sit there, hoping people won’t approach me, and having to be rude and ignore their outstretched hand when they do come up to me.  (For churchgoers reading this – try it sometime!  Sit in your pew when everyone starts to move around to pass the peace, imagine feeling utterly terrified and profoundly vulnerable, and when people come up with outstretched hand, keep your arms folded, and don’t reply.  And remember that you’re doing it someplace where everyone already knows your character and won’t just assume you’re rude!)
5) the language – this is a much harder one to describe, but is partly about what I have learnt since to be dangerous (in predisposing a system to allow abuse within it) and partly about the forms of words that specifically remind me of the disparity between what I believed and what happened to me.  Hymns are good examples.  Ones that refer to god rescuing us from all ills, or god as father (my abuser was fatherly), or even particular hymns that I only ever really sang at the abusive church, will all leave me undone and crying, which is pretty damn embarrassing in a place where no-one understands, and mostly where they don’t want to know…
6) …which leads into the last thing: church people often (dare I say mostly?) have a huge emotional/spiritual investment in their beliefs and the system which undergirds it.  In fact, many many church people depend far more on the system than on the theology.  So if you threaten that system (either actually, by – for instance – going public with an abuse complaint, or in their mind, by telling one’s history of abuse by a minister) many of them are sufficiently turned off that at best they merely murmur a few platitudes and then make their excuses to leave you alone.  That’s a pretty powerful rejection.  Or worse, they try to talk you into coming back to church because “god can heal you if you just let him” (thereby subtly placing the blame for you not being healed squarely on your perceived resistance to god).

That’s a very longwinded, but still short, summary of the first problem.  The second problem, of attitude/theology is simpler to express: christians in general believe that Jesus is the way to god.  The degree to which they assert he is the ONLY way varies.  But the more they believe that, the harder it is for them to see that any variation on their belief is equally legitimate christianity.  In other words, they end up in a “so-and-so is in, but the other guy’s out” kind of mentality.  And the more important it is for them to define what constitutes acceptability, the less open they are to accepting those who, by their definition, are “out”.  And abuse victims, who by their own actions are perceived by the church community as threatening to the system, are deemed “out”, and are therefore excluded.

And this kind of defensiveness ends up being blind faith in the system and what it teaches, rather than blind faith in god.  A brief example: when I went public with my story, I was teaching scripture in the same school as some of the abuser’s congregants.  One of them, who was also a member of the abuser’s parish council, took me to task over going public (as most christians do – they’d rather not know!).  I challenged him to discuss my claims, and he said “it’s your word against his, and I’ll give double honour to an elder”.  Now, he hadn’t asked me what proof I had (sworn statements by other people of admissions the abuser had made to them, including another minister) and even when I told him, he preferred to defend the abuser.  That’s not faith in god, because god is about justice and integrity and honesty – it’s faith in the system and the system’s endorsement of the abuser as an ordained minister.

(And as for the system… in my case the abuser admitted it to the archbishop, but the archbishop never made that admission public, and then the church spent hundreds of thousands of dollars fighting me in court when they knew it to be true… and it took 10 years of being in the public eye and a change of archbishop before I even got an apology!)

If all this was only my experience, or if it had only been one short experience, I might still be in the church.  But it’s the experience of countless clergy abuse victims, in every denomination, and sustained over an unbelievable length of time.  Leaving ends up being a result of a) seeing that most church theology breeds that kind of person, plus b) choosing not to support that system, plus c) choosing to avoid hurtful people and situations.

Let me be clear that I’m referring to churchgoers in general here, not just clergy.  Though different denominations have different structures, and different ways of co-ordinating those structures, and even differing theologies, they all function in very much the same ways when it comes to crushing those who presume to question their goal/aim/theology/methods.  Shoot the messenger, discredit the messenger, stonewall the messenger, and silence anyone they can.  In the course of my life, I’d say the nastiest, most manipulative people I’ve met have been within the church, and the nicest, most compassionate people I’ve met have been outside the church.  That doesn’t mean I’ve met no-one good in the church, and no-one bad outside the church, but the sum total of good people in each has been heavily on the side of the non-churchgoers.  And I truly believe that much of the reason for that is the fear of churchgoers when I threaten their security, resulting in antagonism and bullying behaviour towards me.

One last point: staying in the system and working for change from within is a viable alternative for some.  I’m certainly not wanting to decry that option – in fact, I am tremendously encouraged by the few clergy I know who are doing just that.  But most of them, if you talk to them for any length of time, will admit that they too have become victims of the viciousness of the system-supporters, so it’s a very stressful option, and certainly one that most clergy abuse victims, with all the church-related pain they carry, can’t undertake.

Yet it seems to me that the crux of the issue is – at what age is it appropriate to a) film, photograph or paint naked people (and does it vary depending on the literal accuracy of, and broadness of access to, the medium?), and b) decide whether you want your own body immortalised in such a way? And the answers to those questions probably depends a lot on exactly what people are worried about. Is it the possibility of children being manipulated into posing for such photos, or the potential misuse (by paedophiles, for instance) of the published images? Furthermore, at what age, and to what extent, is nudity ok in a general sense?

No-one seems to question the appropriateness of photos of naked babies and toddlers (think Anne Geddes, for instance, and see this and this and some of these), nor do they question the appropriateness of small children running around naked on the beach or at swimming pools. Yet there are many proven cases (proven by medical examination or other means, since young children are not considered reliable witnesses in court) of abuse of tiny children and babies. Youth and innocence is not sufficient protection against a predator, although it is taken as sufficient justification for nakedness in certain contexts.

So then one has to ask, at what age does it become not ok, and then at what age should it become ok again? At what age are children considered no longer innocent enough (or safe enough) to run naked? How can Kevin Rudd say it’s disgusting to see childhood nakedness in an art exhibition, but not on the beach? Do parents really think about the issues involved there, or is it somehow more confronting in permanent form? (And if so, what about naked cherubs in religious art?) Do parents merely assume that those who see their naked children playing are not eyeing them with sexual interest? (I’m prepared to bet that if they thought otherwise, they’d very quickly make their children get dressed!)

Yet to legislate against all public nakedness would see a return to the fears of the Victorian era, when even pianos’ legs were swathed in cloth rather than display nakedness! Heaven forbid we ever again get to that extreme!

And if one were to say that at such-and-such an age it becomes inappropriate, then when does it become appropriate again, and why then? There’s no magic enlightenment about the issues on one’s 18th birthday, so developing understanding of the issues has to play a role in the lead-up to whatever age is determined to be mature enough. However, the kind of education is also important. Children are taught at the moment that certain parts of them are “private”, and it is a concern if someone wants to touch them. But there’s no teaching, really, about someone wanting to look, let alone to draw or capture in a picture. And if children are taught to believe that “artistic merit” is sufficient justification, then how are they to deal with a paedophile who convinces them to model for photos “for artistic purposes”?

I think the debate throws up more questions than it can answer, and everyone’s slant (and therefore answers) is going to be different. I certainly don’t have any clear answers, although a respected friend of mine suggested that perhaps one solution would be to allow such artworks to be created but withhold them from public view until the child turns 18, at which time the child themself may decide whether the artwork may be released for public view or not.

Hopefully some of what I’ve said here will open up the issues from the perspective of abuse victims. There is also quite a well-balanced look at the issues here.

But the still-present danger of fairy tales (and other similarly simplistic stories), in my opinion, is the portrayal of the good guys as always the good guys, and the bad guys as always the bad guys. And the more sanitised the stories are, the easier it is to recognise which is which. The bad guys are instantly dislikeable (think fairytale stepmothers). Or they’re ugly (bad witches always have hooked chins and warts on their noses, right? And good ones are beautiful, naturally).

The danger of all this lies in the subtle teaching to children that they’ll always be able to tell a bad guy when they see one. That, of course, puts them at risk because they can fail to exercise prudent caution about someone they decide is a good guy. And it seems that adults suffer from the same misapprehension. How often is a clergy abuse (or incest, or child pornography) disclosure about a “respectable” person greeted with the response “but I know him and he’s not like that”. Or “he’s such a nice guy, it couldn’t possibly be true”. These adults don’t seem to realise that they are still bound by the simplistic format of fairy tales, where the good guys and the bad guys are both easy to pick, and uncompromisingly good (or bad) all through.

And while this reaction has also been touched on in my blog entry on compartmentalism (3rd May), I think it’s important to see how little it’s recognised for what it is – a reliance on one’s own personal assessment of a person based on the image they present, which may be vastly different to what they’re like underneath.

So how do you tell a good guy from a bad guy? The simple answer is, of course, that you can’t. The essence of humanity is that we’re not good all through, or bad all through. And our surface image is governed, to a good extent, by what’s acceptable in society. So the more bad we are, the more the surface image can be discrepant from our actions, and it behoves us all to recognise that. So next time you’re reading a fairy tale (aka fiction story), take a moment to check your own reactions – do you know who the bad guy is from the start? If you do, welcome to the UNreal world!

And therein lies the inherent problem of vigilantism. Vigilantes may think that their actions protect the community, but in reality, they actually decrease the amount of protection, by forcing such decisions as this one. The community would be far better protected if they simply knew where the man is, what name he’s living under, and could ensure that he doesn’t have unsupervised access to their children. Since his first known offence was at 17yo, and he has repeatedly re-offended after being released from previous prison terms, there is no reason to suppose that allowing him to blend into the community will enable his rehabilitation. His prior modus operandi was to befriend parents in order to obtain access to their children, who then became victims of his paedophile ring. So protecting his identity will make it easier for him to do the same thing again, and harder for parents to protect their children from him.

The likelihood of vigilante action ensures that he is given more protection than any future victims, and there’s no way that’s a positive outcome.

To vigilantes, knowledge is power. To vigilants, knowledge is safety.