those who suffer. To many priests today,rnthis idea is incomprehensible. ReHgionrnto them has httle to do with suffering; it isrna bland imitation of the Rotary Club.rnThey still follow the spurious postconciliarrnnotion that the Church must accommodaternpublic taste in order to gainrnmore members. Father Greeley, a pollster,rnpoints out that the Church must bernled by its membership rather than by divinerninspiration. Ergo: Father Creeleyrnfound that Irish-American Catholics underrn30 are “the second most permissiverngroup in the country” in contrast to theirrnparents. His entire commentary (not tornmention his book sales) is rooted in thernnotion that moral virtues are archaic;rnthere is but one surviving absolute: thernDemocratic party of the Daley family,rnwhich he serves as faithful sacristan.rnYou will find a good many priests arernbored with strong Catholic belief and arerneager to accept other creeds, particularlyrnNew Age; a heavy majority embrace asrn”tolerance” a misguided flabbiness thatrnsays all doctrines are equally valid. Atrnbottom, the supposition of many priestsrnand laity—reflected particularly in thernwritings of Father Greeley—has its rootsrnin sexuality and the deliberate ridicule ofrnthe sexual norms that have governed thernWest for two millennia.rnThe practice of homosexuality and itsrnsupport by many in the priesthood is rifernin Chicago. Still lingering in popularrnmemory is the “Mass” offered years agornfor a meeting of homosexuals. Accordingrnto the Boston Tablet, the event, concelebratedrnby 50 priests, featured a dancernin which “the marvelously good humoredrnbut never indecorous jollificationrnwent on past midnight.” This sacrilegerncontrasts with the sober and dedicatedrnbut tiny organization “Courage,” whichrnpreaches the strong and compellingrnbeauty of married heterosexuality orrnchastity born of the willingness to confrontrnthe license that secular society approves.rnEnough for now. Take as your modelrnthe French Jesuits who came here tornconvert the Iroquois in Canada. Rememberrnwhat happened to many ofrnthem. Recall the martyrdom that gainedrnthem sainthood. Media martyrdom andrnclerical revolution will attest to your endeavors.rnThomas F. Roeser is cochairman ofrnCatholic Citizens of Illinois and arncolumnist and talk radio host inrnChicago.rnLetter From Parisrnby Curtis CaternDiana—Goddess of IllusionrnWe live in an increasingly hysterical, media-rnmanipulated world in which almostrnnothing is sacred anymore except—thernwords must be italicized to emphasizerntheir gravity—except popularity, or, to bernmore precise, what is popular.rnThis was one of the first thoughts thatrnoccurred to me when, shortly beforern8:00 A.M. (French time) on Sunday, Augustrn31,1 heard a BBC voice say thatrnPrincess Diana had died during thernnight in a ear crash in —of all places —rnParis. This was merely the first in a seriesrnof surprises.rnOne of the pleasures offered to someonernwho lives in Western Europe is thernability to switch on the radio and listen tornthe BBC’s “World Service,” which, unlikernLondon’s loathsome gutter press, hasrnon the whole remained a model of intelligent,rninternationally minded objectivity.rnOn Sunday mornings, in particular,rnone is normally offered three excellentrnprograms in succession. The first, “OnrnYour Farm,” records a breakfast conversationrnconducted by Oliver Woolston (Irncan’t vouch for the spelling) with somernfarmer (and usually his wife) not only inrnsome British county but in places as distantrnas Bavaria, Finland, Kenya, or Uganda.rnThe second is a fascinating programrndevoted to contemporary religious problemsrnall over the globe. The third is anotherrnsmoothly articulated “Letter fromrnAmerica,” by Alistair Cooke, who (nowrnwell into his 80’s) must be the doyen ofrnall radio commentators in the Englishspeakingrnworld.rnWell, on Sunday, August 31, all threernprograms vanished, washed out of sightrn(or more exactly, sound) by an avalanchernof news about the tragic death of Diana,rnPrincess of Wales; an avalanche thatrncontinued to roar and rumble down thernjournalistic slopes not only for all of thatrnSunday but for the rest of the ensuingrnweek. Indeed, it was not until the followingrnSunday, September 7, after thernincredible Saturday apotheosis at WestminsterrnAbbey, that the BBC began tornrecover its customary rhythm and composure.rnThat Princess Diana, the self-erownedrn”Queen of Hearts,” should have beenrnkilled in Paris was, like John Kennedy’srndeath in Dallas, one of those geographicalrnaccidents that even the most “infallible”rnfortune-teller has difficulty predictingrnwith any degree of accuracy. I amrnold enough to have a vivid recollectionrnof the tragic death in 1936 of QueenrnAstrid of Belgium, a “beauty” even morerndazzling than Diana and a product of therncountry (Sweden) that gave us GretarnGarbo. And if I mention this earlier automobilernaccident, it is because in thatrncase, too, the ear in which the unfortunaternvictim was traveling was not beingrndriven by the regular chauffeur; he hadrnbeen relegated by royal order to the backrnseat by King Leopold III, who had takenrncontrol of the steering wheel. The accidentrnhad traumatic consequences for thernguilt-stricken Belgian monarch who,rnwhen his countr)’ was being overrun byrnWehrmacht forces in June 1940, refusedrnto follow Queen Wilhelmina of Holland’srnresolute example by moving tornLondon, afraid that if he did so, it wouldrnbe interpreted by his subjects as an easyrn”escape” by a man who was unwilling tornshare the grim misfortunes of his countrymen.rn(Marshal Petain, I might add,rnhad exactly the same feeling about hisrnkinship with his own people—which isrnwhy, incredible as it may sound, he wasrnadulated by a majority of French menrnand women right up until the relativelyrnlate moment of the Allied invasion ofrnNormandy in June 1944.)rnWhat was not accidental aboutrnPrincess Diana’s tragic death was the appallingrnfact that she was hounded torndeath by the tabloid press, more preciselyrnby a mosquito-like species of snapshottakersrnnow known as paparazzi. Thernword derives, according to one story,rnfrom paparazzo, originally the Italianrnword for the kind of “wolfish” youngrnman who stalks the sidewalks paying outlandishrncompliments to any attractivernsignorina who happens to come along, inrnthe hope of being able to “pick her up.”rnAnother report says Federico Fellini inventedrnthe word for La dolce Vita. In anyrnevent, the French have a word that e’enrnmore graphically describes this kind ofrngallant activity: it is cfrdguer—literally torn”dredge,” much as a minesweeper doesrnwhen it tries to pick up mines, or a fishermanrnwhen he uses a dragnet to collectrnshellfish from the ocean floor. In Paris,rnas in Rome, where the charms of lifern38/CHRONICLESrnrnrn