criticism from outside the congregation.
So, my eventual discernment that Our Lord was moving me in the direction of diocesan priesthood cannot be simply attributed to the Maciel crisis; on the contrary, for years my roots in the Legion had been withering, and a movement toward separation was inevitable, especially as I was able to conclude over time that the “discernment process” that led me to enter and remain in the Legion was problematic and raised serious questions about its validity—a topic I will return to in chapter 8.
Ultimately, an excellent spiritual director, along with trusted and prudent friends outside of the congregation, including one American bishop, helped me through this period. I am forever indebted to that bishop for his patience, boundless kindness, prudence, and availability to me during the immediate days of the crisis. I was able to discern in short order that, regardless of the future of the Legionaries, they were about to embark on what appeared to be nothing less than a “re-foundation” of the congregation—and I was not called to be a part of that. I discerned that Our Lord was moving me in the direction of diocesan priesthood, a reality confirmed by my spiritual director, and by multiple other indications by which I understood Our Lord to be affirming my new direction.
I subsequently left the Legionaries in April 2009 and set out on the road toward my incardination in the Archdiocese of New York, where I had, in fact, lived and ministered during my first eleven years of priesthood. But even though my discernment process was concluding, the shockwave had now passed, and my immediate next steps were much clearer, my interior healing was only beginning. After a few months in my new life as a parish priest, I began telling myself I was “over it.” I soon discovered that was little more than a defense mechanism. The trauma was deep, and the healing would take a lot longer than I could have imagined. Nor did I expect the turmoil that was coming or just how severely my commitment to the Church would be challenged.
Notwithstanding the external appearances—I’m sure I seemed fine to everyone—by the summer of 2010 I was struggling internally as never before in my life. To be sure, I was seeing my spiritual director regularly, engaging in priestly ministry, preaching, celebrating the sacraments, praying, and feeling the support of some wonderful priest friends in the Archdiocese of New York. Yet, inside I felt as if I were slowly drowning.
Many aspects of day-to-day Church life—the bureaucracy and red tape, the hackneyed ways of parish ministry, the clericalism, gossip, cynicism, and negativity in the clergy—contributed to create in me a sense of loathing for almost anything Church-related. Sometimes, even at Mass, I felt as if I was just going through the motions. My homilies seemed hollow. And most difficult of all—I was assaulted at times by the hitherto unthinkable temptation to abandon priestly ministry altogether. When I looked inside sometimes, it seemed all I could find was aching, anger, emptiness, and an almost overpowering urge to flee, to be done with the whole thing, to go somewhere far away and start a new life.
There were moments when I was utterly numb, feeling at times as if I no longer loved the Church. In particular, I struggled profoundly with the sense that I had been hurt by the Church. I will never forget one morning in particular when, after celebrating Mass and after the Church had emptied out, I stood gazing at the beautiful stained-glass depiction of the Resurrection ablaze in the morning sunlight, and I asked myself: “Do I still believe that?”
In the summer of 2010, what was happening inside was that I was beginning to experience—to feel—the depths of my own wounds. Yet, that was actually the necessary first step toward healing. And that’s when I began writing—literally as therapy for myself—what would eventually become this book. So my story, thankfully, does not end here. I will share more about it in the following chapters, particularly about how I found healing in the aftermath of this traumatic experience, and how Jesus led me to discover in my wounds an oasis of grace, and a call to a new mission.
Chapter 2
Soul Murder
“Take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the oppressed. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”
—Elie Weisel
I have not suffered the personal devastation of sexual abuse. My own personal heartbreak within the Church, as devastating as it was, pales in comparison to the raw betrayal and the unspeakable suffering of those subjected to this extreme form of physical, moral, and spiritual cruelty. Victims of sexual abuse, especially those who have suffered at the hands of Catholic priests, have been foremost in my mind and heart when writing this book and reflecting on those who have been hurt in the Church.
Soul Murder
Some 17,600 Americans have alleged they were abused by more than 6,500 clerics from 1950 to June 2015, according to a review of data by BishopAccountability.org. Many victims who were sexually abused by clergy as children refer to what they have suffered with a blunt and chilling expression. They call it soul murder. Many wait for years to open up to someone about the abuse. The reasons for this are often complex. They are afraid of not being believed;
they fear the reactions they will receive and how this knowledge will impact relationships with a spouse or child, with family or parishioners, or how it would be handled in the local news media. Yet when they do eventually begin sharing their stories, they discover that telling what happened, and being listened to and believed, is key to any possible healing. While victims are individually unique in their manner of handling the aftermath of their own abuse, most eventually want their stories acknowledged. For many, in fact, sharing their stories becomes a mission: they want to know if the perpetrator had other victims; they want those victims to know that they were not alone, that it is okay to come forward, that the abuse was not their fault.
Not “Them” and “Us”
As child sexual abuse expert Dr. Monica Applewhite shared with me, there is one enormous misperception that unfortunately shapes the attitudes of not a few Catholics toward the reality of clergy sexual abuse. “Persons who were abused are not them; they are us,” she observed emphatically. “They came from the families who were closest to the Church: they worked and volunteered for the Church, they had a child who was considering becoming a priest or nun; these were people who spent a lot of time in the Church.”
Part of the tragic story of the abuse crisis is that victims were seen as adversaries, not only by bishops and diocesan lawyers, but by fellow Catholics who held them suspect because their stories seemed too incredible and because—it was often assumed—they “just want to harm the Church.” Victims of sexual abuse by the clergy are not the adversary, and as Dr. Applewhite observes, “When victims come forward with their stories, they are giving us the gift of truth.” Here, too, the truth will set us free.
Facing the Reality
On a Sunday evening in late February 2016, I directed a screening and discussion for some thirty of our seminarians and faculty of the movie Spotlight, which recounts the story of how, in 2002, The Boston Globe’s “Spotlight” team of investigative reporters uncovered the massive scandal of child sexual abuse and coverup in the Boston Archdiocese. That same Sunday evening, Spotlight won the Oscar for best picture.
It was the second time I had seen Spotlight. In the movie’s final scene, the Spotlight
