If I were to retire sometime in the relatively near future and write a novel about a fictional city, I think I would make the city a struggling, Midwestern city with a distinguished history and an uncertain future. There would be a strong Roman Catholic presence in the city. In some ways, the church would mirror the city — distinguished history, uncertain future.

One of the characters in the novel would be the new archbishop.

He would be considered — by people inside and outside the church — as a breath of fresh air. That’s because he was replacing a bombastic and polarizing man. The new fellow seemed anything but bombastic. He was quiet, friendly and understated.

He had come from another city, of course, and like all the leaders of the American church in the early years of the 21st century, he had to account for his time during the Troubles. What did he do in the early days of the sex scandal that would rock the church? It was almost like being a German politician in the years following the Second World War. The question hung over them all — what did you do?

Our fictional archbishop did nothing extraordinary. He did nothing dishonorable. Certainly, he was not guilty of sexual abuse himself. Nor did he move abusers from one church to another. On the other hand, he did nothing heroic. He never once contacted police to report abuse. He tried to control the damage to the church.

In a sense, my novel would be borrowing from John le Carré. When George Smiley realized that the British Secret Service — the Circus — had been infiltrated, all his efforts were to protect the Circus and control the damage. So it would be for my archbishop and for most of his peers in other cities. Protecting the Circus would be foremost.

If I were to flash back to those days in his life, he would be awash with various emotions. Sadness at what had happened, sympathy for those who had been abused, anger at those who had done the abuse, anger (but not quite so severe) at those who were exulting in the troubles of the church and fear of the future. Could it really all come tumbling down?

In late-night conversations with like-minded functionaries of the church, he and his colleagues would explore all sorts of theories as to why this had happened. All the theories you and I might toss about now, and a few others as well. Mostly, they would debate whether celibacy was a realistic option in an oversexed society? Oh, the discussions they would have! Intelligent, thoughtful men.

Some years later, after the revelations of abuse and cover-up left the church damaged, but still standing, he would be sent to our fictional city as its archbishop.

He would be deposed for a lawsuit in the city where he had worked during the Troubles.

He would be, by the time of our novel, an older man, well-versed in the law and very much aware that depositions taken under oath by a hostile attorney are dangerous things. Caution is called for, and the most cautious answer of all would be that he didn’t remember.

He would be asked if he had known, when he worked in this other city, that it was a crime for an adult to have sex with a child. He would respond that he wasn’t sure whether he knew it was a crime at the time.

A safe answer — or so it would seem.

When the videotaped deposition was released by the attorney, there would be an outcry. How could anybody claim not to know that it was a crime for an adult to have sex with a child?

At this point, our fictional archbishop would say, “I am a man of many failings, and one of them is impatience. I was recently asked in a deposition about events from years ago. Everything I did in those times was documented, and those documents were given long ago to the attorney who took my deposition. When the attorney asked me what I thought or believed in those days, I generally responded, in all honesty, that I cannot recall what I thought or believed at any given moment. I responded that way to a question of whether I knew then that sexual abuse of a child was a crime. In impatience, I responded that I could not recall what I knew. That was a misstatement. Of course, I knew it was a crime. A crime against God’s law and a crime in the eyes of the state.

“I have instructed my lawyer to call that attorney and amend my answer. If I could answer again, I would answer differently. That is not unusual for me. If I could live yesterday over, I would live it better. I am, after all, a sinner.”

Who could not respect such a humble and honest man?