The two who spring to mind are Bishop Eamon Casey, who had a son after an illicit affair, and the man who revelled in being a priestly pin-up, Fr Michael Cleary, whose hypocrisy was fully exposed in a recent documentary which traced his life in Inchicore through the eyes of the son he never recognised.

The two men did as much to turn a nation away from religion as the paedophile priests whose actions have rocked the faith of the most devout.

So the task facing Catholic leaders in today's multi-cultural Ireland would seem to be insurmountable. How do you win the cynical and secular back to a belief system and set of values that has been put aside by a generation who may be less angry than their parents but who believe religion is of little relevance to their lives?

It is the challenge facing the hierarchy and one that the archbishop of Dublin, Diarmuid Martin appears determined to meet head on.

His interview with Justine McCarthy in today's Sunday Tribune reveals a man who is not afraid to nail his colours quite firmly to the mast.

Take the big issue that all but destroyed the church here . . . the sexual abuse of children by clerics. He is not sad for the priests, he is angry at the suffering of the young.

He appeals for politics of idealism but is prepared to tackle everyday dichotomies on public and private morality. People involved in exploitation and corruption should not take communion. No money is given without some sort of vested interest. All money comes with a tag, he says unequivocally.

His views on crime and the need to rebuild communities and help them stand up to criminals are rooted in a pragmatic yet idealistic vision of social justice. Why can't the money from the Criminal Assets Bureau be channelled back to the communities from which it was, in reality, stolen, he asks. Why not indeed?

He is shocked by the level of violence that has become commonplace. He is quite political about drug violence. There are echoes of former justice minister Michael McDowell's insistence that middle-class drug abusers are complicit in gang crime in his statement that, "You get people using cocaine on Saturday night and eating organic food on Sunday. It is not a healthy thing."

His insistence on equality of access to education is rooted in his own experience. "When I was made a bishop I was told that my brother and myself were the only two people on the street who finished secondary education. We weren't the most intelligent. The important thing is to ensure that children get the same opportunity."

His views on pluralism in schools are now well-known and make for a refreshing change, as does his approach to the issue of Sikhs wearing turbans if they join the gardai. We should look to pragmatic London, not tense Paris, he argues.

On the health service, he is angry at the unjust treatment of the elderly and, as chairman of the board of Crumlin Children's Hospital, of the way the poor facilities we have are being undermined by plans (which are behind schedule) for a new children's hospital at the Mater.

His concerns are wide and varied but they are underpinned by a single thread, his belief that the state . . . from its highest political institutions and most "important" and wealthiest citizens, to its smallest schools, nursing homes or part-time garda stations staffed by "ordinary" employees . . . is there for one reason: to serve the community and the individual within it.

He believes in the good of humanity, but worries that cynicism might destroy us. And he sees a huge amount of fragility. "There are days when all of us need to be carried, " he says.

It's been a long time since a Church leader has spoken so clearly and directly on issues of concern. It marks an extraordinary turnaround for the Catholic Church in this country that, at last, one of its leading representatives is doing so much straight talking and with such moral authority.