Conor Brady recalls the momentous events that ensued after he was contacted by Annie Murphy
For many Irish people under the age of 30, the significance accorded to the Bishop Casey saga in the early 1990s is baffling. Roman Catholic priests - even bishops - who experience various difficulties with celibacy now turn up regularly in the news. Some of my adult childrens' friends shake their heads in wry amusement when people of my generation try to explain the significance of what happened in 1992 when the Eamonn Casey story broke.
In January 1992, an American woman, Annie Murphy, and her partner, Arthur Pennell, contacted The Irish Times with information that Ms Murphy had had a lengthy relationship with the bishop of Galway, Eamonn Casey. They claimed that Casey was the father of Annie's son, Peter, then aged 17.
The implications of such a report - if it were to be true - would have been shocking in Ireland of 1992. The Roman Catholic hierarchy was a powerful, phalanx-like institution. It the early 1990s it was drawn up in full battle-order against the rising influence of secularism in Ireland. Backed by a charismatic pope in Rome, it was determined that the traditional influence and prerogatives of the church in Ireland would not be dissipated.
Bishop Casey was one of its strong men. He was not perhaps regarded as one of its main intellectual pillars. But his forceful personality, his natural flair for publicity, and his ease with the media, all combined to give him what was arguably the highest profile in the hierarchy. He had been master-of-ceremonies when Pope John Paul II visited Ireland in 1979. He was a frequent guest on TV and radio shows. He was popular, well-known and highly-regarded among a Catholic faithful, many of whom were growing doubtful about aspects of their church but who desperately wanted to see their loyalty and their faith vindicated.
By the 1990s, that loyalty and faith had begun to teeter, to slip, as the secularist agenda gradually gained ground. A privileged position, a set of values and a power-structure that had prevailed in Ireland since the Famine were beginning to weaken. The church was under pressure to yield ground. A scandal of these proportions, involving a senior member of the hierarchy, would probably tip the balance conclusively in the struggle. And arguably it did.
Yet Bishop Casey's involvement with Annie Murphy was consensual and, it appears to have been, for a time at least, a loving relationship. Put the church's rules aside - and what could be more natural? Today, the younger generation asks: what was all the fuss about? Did we believe that all the bishops and priests were plaster saints?
Faced with the task of investigating the story, The Irish Times had little to go on for some time beyond Annie Murphy's own word.
Some senior journalists were uncomfortable with being asked to work on the inquiries and requested reassignment. People who might corroborate Annie's claims refused to go on the record and even to confirm important details off the record. It would have been utterly unjust to publish such an allegation against Bishop Casey without solid, supporting evidence. And if we were being sold a pup or if we were unable to prove what we published, the consequences for the newspaper's reputation and credibility would be catastrophic.
After three weeks, the newspaper was able to establish that diocesan funds had been diverted by the bishop for Annie and Peter's maintenance. Armed with this information, we requested an interview with him. He agreed to meet two journalists at a Dublin hotel but instead he flew to New York. The next morning we published the details of the missing money. And within days, the full story had come out, although I often wonder what processes of validation were applied in certain other news media in preparing their reports.
Oddly, there was little disbelief in the public reaction. But there was widespread shock and a sense of betrayal among the faithful. The church preached sexual continence outside of marriage; it refused the sacraments to people who used artificial contraception; it railed against divorce, homosexuality and abortion. Yet here was the bishop of Galway, breaking his own rules, drawing money from church funds to pay for his sins and then running away instead of facing the music.
Over the years, countless Catholics have acknowledged that it was the moment of truth for them. It was the point at which they decided that their church had lost credibility and forfeited the right to demand their obedience.
And there was anger - although it is fair to say that it soon gave way to a more general sense of forgiveness. In truth, the laity proved themselves a great deal more forgiving of their pastors' sins at this time than some of the pastors had been towards the laity down the decades. In time, these came to be seen as relatively innocent days and Bishop Casey's offences came to be regarded as relatively venial compared to the horrors of clerical sex abuse that unfolded as the decade went by.
Today, the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland is striving to create itself anew. Participation in services and attendance at the sacraments have fallen away. There is a healthy scepticism towards the hierarchy's pronouncements. Among many former Catholics, there is a positive antipathy towards their church, its clergy and its hierarchy. A once-mighty fortress of orthodoxy and conformity is in ruins. And there can be little doubt that the first major breaching of its walls occurred in 1992 with the flight of Bishop Casey.
The place of religion, and in particular the role of the Roman Catholic church in public life has been redefined. It is difficult for younger people to appreciate the power it once wielded or the extent to which politicians, officials, business, the professional classes and others vied in order to make manifest their conformity and obedience.
I believe that the Casey affair had at least one immediately positive consequence. I feel sure it enabled some of those who had suffered abuse at the hands of churchmen to speak out in the years that followed. It gave them courage. Heretofore no allegation or accusation against a churchman stood much of a chance of being believed in Ireland. When it became clear that a bishop could live a lie, divert diocesan funds and flee the consequences of his actions, that changed.
Eamonn Casey's planned return, in the evening of his life, is a good metaphor for the changes that have taken place. A more confident, more mature Ireland will treat him kindly, and relate to him as the human being that he is rather than the powerful authority he once represented. May he have many peaceful years among the people of Galway.
Conor Brady was editor of The Irish Times from 1986 to 2003