“These are not easy days in which to stand up and be counted as a Catholic in Boston.” These words, written by the pastor of my church, appeared in our parish bulletin last Sunday, understated testimony to the pain, confusion, and anger felt by so many people in our faith community.

Just that day, reports of two more priests accused of sexual abuse against children had emerged, bringing past seventy the number of Boston Catholic clergy thought to have committed this terrible crime. Making matters worse, the Cardinal Archbishop, by his own admission, had assigned priests with a documented record of pederasty to positions in which they could victimize even more children.

Growing up Catholic in Boston suburbs, I never imagined the existence of such crimes. That priests would violate the innocence of young people in this way lay outside my mental horizons.

Later, I went to a high school where the faculty was made up exclusively of priests belonging to the Archdiocese and, though I had an unfavorable opinion of some as teachers and mentors, I never heard of any one of them showing the least sign of sexual impropriety toward me or my fellow students.

This continued to be my experience in adulthood. All during the years when, in my first career, I belonged to the ranks of the clergy myself, I never had any knowledge of sexual crimes against children.

Recently, however, I have read reports about crimes attributed to some priests of the archdiocese with whom I was acquainted. The graphic details of one priest’s alleged criminal activities have hit me hard because the actions were so sordid, evidently damaged so many children, and violated the trust that many of us had in him.

What does it mean for people in later life to have their certainties exploded, as many of us have through these revelations of evil?  How can we cope with massive disillusion in matters of crucial importance to us, such as faith in the Church and trust in its ministers?

Having our confidence in sacred persons and institutions shown to be undeserving ranks as one of later life’s most upsetting experiences. No wonder newspaper photos have shown senior members of parishes in tears when revelations about their pastors are made.

When our devotion turns out to be without foundation, we can feel at sea, deprived of our bearings. The scholar Peter Marris, in a new book treating  meaning and purpose in later life, writes that “the loss of this assumptive world is deeply threatening, even if nothing outwardly has changed.” He compares the experience to a death in the family that can throw us into sudden crisis.

But I believe it is also an opportunity for possible breakthroughs toward deeper meaning. I believe that, for Catholics reeling from unwelcome disclosures about the Church, the current crisis can lead toward some valuable outcomes, both for ourselves and for our faith community.

The revelations of corruption among church leaders can serve as a powerful reminder that religious faith is directed, not toward human beings, but to God. One of my favorite sayings of Jesus applies here. Correcting a young man who called him good he said: “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”

It is possible to come out of the crisis with a purified faith. Discovering the radical thrust of what Jesus said to the young man can help strip us of illusions about the integrity of human beings, even sacred figures in priestly vestments and bishops’ mitres ordained to lead the Church.

On the community level, the anguish of Boston’s Catholic people and those in many other places raises urgent questions that seem not even to be under discussion by Catholic leaders now:

Should the Catholic clergy be exclusively male? Why should not married people be priests in the Roman Church? How can lay people exercise greater influence in the Church, instead of being dominated by clerics? What changes need to be made in the Church’s teaching on sexuality?

As to the first two issues, it is hard to believe that women, were they in positions of pastor, would have behaved the way so many men have done. And married clergy might have been less likely to abuse children, though that is less certain.

Readers of a certain age may remember how, in the middle 1960s, the church adopted far-reaching changes that showed remarkable creative energy. The Second Vatican Council, bringing together bishops from all over the world, surprised everybody with its willingness to alter many long-established ways of thinking and acting.

Now may be the time for the Church to show bravery and vision similar to that evident at Vatican II so as to set right those elements of the institution that cry out for change both in the Boston Archdiocese and elsewhere.

Richard Griffin