Tom Harpur 4-Book Bundle. Tom Harpur
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applying pressure on me to back off. I kept from showing my rising sense of indignation, but I admit it was a struggle. I said it would be helpful if he could be a little more specific and cite columns, news stories or features with my byline where the alleged “slanting” had occurred. He replied that he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—come up with exact examples at that time. I told him he could get a secretary to look them up and send me copies, but he didn’t seem to think much of that idea either. I then took some pains to make certain he understood the difference between an opinion column and stories reporting news.
Not surprisingly, perhaps, he got fairly hot under the collar at about that point and for a moment I thought he was going to end our conversation. In any case I made it plain that I was going to continue writing about all faiths with as much objectivity as possible and that I definitely had no animus against him, his archdiocese, his leader or his Church. (I might have added that I had paid to send two of my daughters to a separate school.) However, at the same time, I told him that Pope John Paul II in my view had been receiving a free ride from the media from the day of his election. I said it was my intention to ensure that the Star reported on all aspects of the papal persona and message regardless of what he or other members of the hierarchy thought or felt. We finally shook hands, but I knew that any friendship that had existed, however fragile, was now a matter of history.
The entire encounter with the cardinal left an unpleasant taste in its wake. It reminded me forcefully of something I was learning as a journalist—that, generally speaking, Church leaders and leaders of other faiths viewed the media with a mixture of guile and ignorance. Basically, they saw the media as there to be manipulated or used for their own ends. They had little knowledge of how the media really worked or of how best to approach them. Certainly their theology had no place for mass media, and it still lacks any depth of understanding, in my view. I remain of the opinion that my own denominational matrix, the Anglican Church in particular, is woefully backward where mass media are concerned. I felt so strongly about this when I finally resigned from my position as religion editor in 1984 that I shortly afterwards accepted a part-time lecturing post at the Toronto School of Theology. The course I taught for three or four years was called the Theology and Praxis of Mass Media.
The summer of 1979 was fairly quiet for a while. I was asked to be a speaker/panel member at the annual think tank at Lake Couchiching called the Geneva Conference. It dealt with the theme of religion and global social justice issues. The only memory remaining of it is that theologian Gregory Baum was also part of the proceedings and that I got into a heated argument at one point with a woman delegate who was upset by a recent column I had written somewhat critical of Ivan Illich. I was in a rather sour mood anyway, because my rocky marriage had grown even more so over the past year.
After Couchiching we went to Manitoulin Island on what was scheduled as a two-week camping trip. In brief, the holiday was an unfortunate domestic disaster. Both of us were in the wrong, as so often happens, but in spite of an attempt at marriage counselling, we realized that we were in an impossible relationship. Fortunately, the children were by then of an age and maturity to handle the breakup in as healthy a manner as possible. At the time, I saw the ending of twenty-three years of marriage as a sad though inescapable failure. In the eyes of my parents and those of the circles they moved in when I was growing up, divorce was looked upon with a kind of holy horror. I felt it could never happen to me. However, in retrospect and in truth, it heralded the beginning of a most creative and fulfilling second half of my life.
Before the end of the camping holiday, I called the Star one day from Little Current, the main town on the island, to check in and was relieved to receive a message from the managing editor about an upcoming assignment. On my return to Toronto, I was to be sent to Ireland and then the United States to cover Pope John Paul II’s second trip abroad. The message said that the plan was to send me over to Northern Ireland a week or so ahead of the Pope’s arrival in Dublin to do a special feature on the effects of the sectarian violence upon the children of Belfast. It was slated for the Star’s prestigious Insight section. I left for Belfast on the evening of September 15.
Belfast was vastly changed from when I had been there as a child of nine and then several times as a student at Oxford. Since at that time my grandparents were still living and nearly all my relatives were there, I was able to receive a greatly reduced fare that the airlines offered for students “going home” for school vacations. I usually visited family briefly in Belfast and then went down as soon as possible to Tullyhogue, the tiny, historic village where my father was born. His brother, my uncle Bob, was my favourite among all the kinfolk. He loved fishing, hunting and other outdoor pursuits as much as I did. We had many wonderful hours fishing for sea trout or salmon up on the moors. It mattered little to either of us whether we were soaked to the skin by the seemingly ever-present rain or not. I vividly recall on one such occasion how we sought temporary shelter in an isolated cottage up on the moor near Loch Fee in a sudden thunderstorm. It was a simple whitewashed stone farmhouse up above the small loch, or lake. The farmer’s wife took instant pity on our bedraggled state and welcomed us in. Soon our coats and other apparel were steaming in front of a glowing peat fire in an open fireplace. The scent of the peat reminded me of the times when I was on the trail through the bush with Rev. Leslie Garrett and our guide, Henry Cutfeet, at Big Trout Lake many years before. Our impromptu hostess soon had two mugs of hot tea and some absolutely delicious buttered scones set before us. It was better than a feast.
In 1979, Belfast had British soldiers in full body armour and carrying assorted weaponry on every downtown street. It was a formidable experience walking past them because they were usually in groups of four, two with their automatic weapons aiming ahead and to the side while two comrades walked backwards behind them guarding against snipers from rooftops or windows. Armoured cars patrolled the major streets and the various districts known for their IRA presence. The Europa Hotel, in the city’s core, had been bombed a number of times. That’s where the Star staffer handling my travel arrangements had decided to put me. “All the journalists stay there,” she said. The place looked badly beaten up and there were various barriers outside to prevent cars with explosives from ramming the entrances. Getting in and out through the security was a regular hassle. But the rest of the city bore the signs of the ongoing unrest and violence on all sides as well. I spent several days visiting schools, talking to parents, educators and doctors, and meeting with representative clergy. The Reverend Ian Paisley refused to talk to me. He was still furious over a column I had done once in which I had said bluntly that Toronto needed a congregation of his Free Presbyterian Church like the proverbial hole in the head. I lost no sleep over his unwillingness to talk.
The city was so bitterly divided that even getting a taxi involved knowing whether you wanted to go to a Roman Catholic area of dominance or a Protestant one. I remember going into what I was told was a storefront where I could order a cab. When you went in, you were immediately faced by a wall that cut the room in half. High up on it was a grille. A voice carried on a PA system said: “Where do you want to go?” There was no sign of anyone anywhere. I gave my destination in a loud reply and was then asked to give the purpose of my trip and the party I would be seeing there. Only when that was cleared out of the way was I told to go outside and wait for my ride.
When I finally left Belfast and headed down to the country for a very brief visit with the Harpurs in Tullyhogue, I felt so thankful that my parents had made the decision long ago to leave all the religious bitterness and fighting behind them and make a new life in Canada.
Fred Ross, a colleague and photographer from the Star, then met me in Dublin, and I was about to have some of my most hectic days as a journalist. The Pope’s schedule called for a week in southern Ireland and then his first visit to the U.S.A. It was a non-stop ride from first to last. It began with a rally one million strong in Dublin’s Phoenix Park. An utterly incredible roar met his opening words. He raised his hand for silence and in the great hush that followed he shouted: “Ireland, semper fidelis!” And the crowd roared its approval once more. His words “Always faithful” have a sad irony about them today. Little did anyone know then the sorry fall from grace that lay ahead for the Irish hierarchy in general and certain of its bishops in particular. Ongoing revelations of abuse of hundreds of children by priests and lay brothers, including a massive cover-up by those in the highest positions of authority, have