Speaking OUT to end clergy sexual misconduct.

Archive for September, 2013

Rejecting Shame. Claiming Our Voices.

Last night in my women’s group, “Celeste” talked about her 12-step work. Now in Step Four, she is writing an Inventory of Resentments. In the first column: whom does she still resent? In columns two and three: what did they do, and how did it impact her? Finally, in the fourth column, what role did she play in the harm she experienced?

Celeste paused and looked down at her feet. She sighed. Then she lifted her gaze. “I’ve never told you this,” she began, “but I was molested by a teacher when I was 14.” Celeste’s mother had one discussion with the school, but she refused to discuss it at home. To deal with the pain and shame, Celeste sought religion. She started attending her best friend’s church, and she met with a minister to confess her sins. When she “confessed” that her teacher had been sexual with her, the minister said the words, “I forgive you.”

“I forgive YOU??” Maybe thirty years ago, clergy weren’t mandated reporters of abuse. But today, if that minister didn’t tell authorities that a teacher had sexually abused a girl in his care, he would be criminally liable. Thankfully, we’ve come a long way in three decades, and so has Celeste. Even though her 80-year-old mother still calls the abuse “the event that you refer to as ‘molestation,’ ” Celeste is able to put the shame where it belongs. In her Inventory of Resentments, Celeste can write her teacher’s name, describe the event, and rage all over the page if she wants. But in the fourth column? “I’m leaving it blank,” she says. “I know I had no role in that event.”

This morning, writer/survivor Kerri (of the Kerri Chronicles) reposted a remarkable essay called “shameless by an author who blogs as slhouchin. The essay opens: “If I began telling you a story about how I was mugged, robbed, had my identity or car stolen, I would not worry about you judging me. The weight of blame would sit on the shoulders of the criminals. If I told you how my friend’s elderly relative was murdered after she answered the door to a salesman, you would not tell me how she was to blame for opening the door… But if I were to tell you how I am a survivor of sexual assault, I would be fearful.”

Like SLHouchin, I am still fearful today when I talk about clergy sexual misconduct. I am afraid that if I tell my story to anyone who doesn’t fully understand how it can happen even to strong women and men or how it impacts our lives (and 99.9% of the human population don’t understand these things), my listeners might think that I invited the abuse, or that I over-reacted, or that I made the whole thing up. In other words, that I’m a slut, a nut, or a liar. I’m not afraid of the church’s attempts to silence me — in fact that makes me want to tell my truth even louder. But when I tell my story today, I’m telling it to people who are important in my life now. I don’t want to lose community again. That risk is always present, and it makes me afraid. Every time I tell my story, I have to push past that fear.

SLHouchin writes, “I am conditioned to tell my story with an apology, with shame, with accountability for my part in his violence.” But she says, “I am not ashamed for surviving. I am not ashamed for calming down, letting him finish, and smiling as he got into his car” or for “the last words I said to him ‘We’re cool.'” She continues, “I do have real shame in my life for the pain that I have caused other people. I have shame for my mean girl phase in high school. I am ashamed for the times in my life where I held my tongue instead of speaking the truth. I am ashamed that I do not speak this truth louder.”

My brave friend Fernando is now speaking out about a rape that he endured a few months ago. I use Fernando’s real name to honor his courage. Like me, he is speaking openly. Unlike me, he is telling his story fearlessly. He has a large following on social media, and he is using this platform to stand up publicly as a survivor, to raise awareness about sexual assault, and to give courage to other victims and survivors. Like SLHouchin, Fernando refuses to bear the shame that we sometimes place on the shoulders of rape survivors. Like Celeste, Fernando knows he played no role in his own violation.

SLHouchin tells about a Canadian teen who tragically took her own life after surviving a brutal rape and social bullying. “At 15, I felt the guilt too,” she writes. “I thought of taking my own life.” For most of her adult life, Houchin kept silent for reasons similar to mine. But now, she says, “Survivors dying by their own hand makes my silence so utterly selfish.”

And that is why I write and speak. My voice (by which I mean “my courage”) is small yet, but it is growing. Every time I tell my story, every time I identify openly as a survivor of clergy sexual misconduct, my voice grows a little stronger. I couldn’t have done this three and a half years ago — I needed to heal before I could risk being ostracized again. But now I’m ready. I’m grateful to all my survivor friends, whether they were children or adults when they were victimized, whether their abuse involved physical force or sick-sweet persuasion, and whether they have told a thousand people or just one. You all give me courage. I hope I can give a little back to you.

Finding Strength, Hope and Healing

For some survivors, writing is how we heal. But while I was keeping my pastor’s dark secret, writing was almost impossible. How can I describe the weight of holding that secret? I don’t even have the courage to try right now; it was a terrifying, sickening, and confusing time that lasted far too long. I will just say that the secret permeated almost every waking thought for years. I had the terrible duty to guard my pastor’s reputation and honor, and the only way I could do it was through silence. But the secret wanted OUT. If I tried to write, the terrible secret found its way into almost line. To protect the secret, my writing turned to mud (dense, obtuse, opaque) and then dried up altogether. Years after I left my church, I finally found the courage to begin talking. Once I did, words started flowing like water.

It is the rare survivor who has the courage to write while she is still facing her demons. Even more rare: a survivor who writes so fearlessly that she almost pulls you into her world, even while she is still facing the horrors of victim-blaming and ostracism. Survivor “K” reported her pastor just this summer. He left ordained ministry only weeks ago. And yet she has the clarity of mind to write — and not merely a catalog of events. She shares with stunning transparency her struggles with trust and betrayal, loss and grief, despair and hope, anger, faith and emptiness.

K has given me permission to share her blog. As you read, please consider these suggestions and warnings:
* Start at the beginning. Scroll to the earliest post and read your way forward. The newer reflections will make most sense if you know the facts of K’s story.
* Trigger warning: the Aug 19 post titled “How My Experience with Clergy Sexual Misconduct Started” contains an account of sexual abuse.
* Trigger warning: the Sept 5 post titled “Don’t Call Me Brave” contains a description of self-harm.

K writes about abuse and betrayal, but she also writes about honor, compassion, and courage — and strength, hope, and healing. I’m honored to share her words here.

Forgiveness: the Real F-Word

My friend “Deborah” was raised by mixed-faith parents: Jewish father, Christian mother. As an agnostic adult, Deborah remained fascinated by her parents’ faith traditions. She occasionally attended my former church, and she had great admiration for my pastor. She met with him at least once in his office. When I reported my pastor, Deborah was shaken. She asked me, “But aren’t Christians supposed to forgive?” I don’t remember how I responded in that traumatized state, but apparently it was enough to end the friendship.

I did try to forgive my pastor, many times. His abuse consisted of a long period of grooming and two serious betrayals of trust. A mere two weeks after the first event, he “repented” and I “forgave” him. I struggled for more than a year to forgive the second event, and ultimately I could not. I now realize I never really forgave at all. I whitewashed the offense because I so desperately needed to think well of him, and to be at peace with him.

What is forgiveness, anyway? I have really struggled with this issue. Christianity promotes radical forgiveness. In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus tells Peter to forgive a sinning brother “not seven times, but seventy times seven.” Christian culture pushes forgiveness so hard that even my agnostic-Jewish-Christian friend pressed me to forgive. But who benefits when a victim forgives her abuser? Does forgiveness free the abuser from sin? Does forgiveness free the victim from pain? Or does forgiveness free the community from the hard work of justice and healing? I suspect it is mostly the latter. That’s why in the context of clergy sexual abuse, I consider “forgiveness” the real F-word.

Even so, I continue to struggle to forgive my offending pastor. Marie Fortune and Joretta Marshall’s “Forgiveness and Abuse: Jewish and Christian Reflections” (Routledge, 2004) has been helpful in this effort. Whenever I feel shame about my Christian unforgiveness, I take courage from the fact that the Jewish tradition (the root of Christianity, after all) demands that the offender first make full reparation. What’s more, the Jewish tradition recognizes that for some sins, reparation is impossible. My former pastor can never restore my reputation from the false words he spoke about me afterward.

And yet, I continue to try to forgive. I continue to try to understand forgiveness. That’s why I was glad to learn of the FaithTrust Institute’s free webinar next Tuesday. The Rev. Dr. Marie Fortune will lead a discussion titled “Violence and Trauma: What Does Forgiveness Really Mean?” I’ve joined several FTI webinars, and I highly recommend them. It’s easy to sign up. The technology is simple even for digital immigrants like me. Best of all, it’s completely anonymous. I’ll be there, and I’ll share the insights here. I hope you’ll consider joining this important event.

Thank You, Bishop Katharine

On August 15, I sent a letter to the Most Rev. Dr. Katharine Jefferts Schori, Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church. This morning, I received her extraordinary response:

Dear Ms. Thiemann,

My apology for the length of time this response has taken.  I have been out of the office for the last several weeks.

I deeply regret your own injury by sexual misconduct in this Church and the response thereto.  I am very much aware of how deep the pain and how difficult healing can be.  As Christians and Episcopalians, we seek healing for the whole creation and we also continue to fall far short of God’s dream for that healing.

I will have a conversation with Bishop Whalon, and hope that he will respond constructively to your request.  In regard to your second request, the Title IV process is under review, and I hope that the next General Convention will attend to some needed revisions.

May you know God’s healing grace in your own life, and continue to be a minister of healing for others.  I remain

Your servant in Christ,

Katharine Jefferts Schori

What makes Bishop Katharine’s letter so remarkable? To heal from clergy sexual abuse, victims need to be heard and believed. We need our pain acknowledged, we need compassionate care,  and we need to know that other vulnerable people will be protected. Most of all, we need to be vindicated, cleared of the cloud of accusation and innuendo, and held blameless for the abuse we suffered. For me, Bishop Katharine’s letter rings every one of those bells. And she makes no excuses; she simply expresses sorrow for the pain of this one victim. Do you know how seldom a religious leader responds with this much grace? My friend “Jane,” a survivor from another mainstream denomination, shook her head in wonder and said, “This just doesn’t happen.”

Well, now it has. I’m profoundly grateful on my own account, and I’m more hopeful for the Episcopal Church than I have been for a long time. I pray that Bishop Katharine will have the impact she hopes for. I will eagerly follow both stories, and I’ll share important developments here.


One Man’s Hands

“One man’s hands can’t tear a prison down
Two men’s hands can’t tear a prison down
But if two and two and fifty make a million
We’ll see that day come round
We’ll see that day come round.”

me and Father Joe

Pete Seeger wrote “One Man’s Hands” in the 1950s, and the Chad Mitchell Trio covered it best. You can hear their version here, and you can hear founding member Joe Frazier’s voice harmonizing clear and strong in the third line. The Trio still perform from time to time, but Frazier now spends most of his time as the vicar of St. Columba’s in the small mountain town where my family has a weekend cabin. I may have left the Episcopal Church, but I never left St. Columba’s. After my hometown church family ostracized me, Father Joe Frazier offered safe haven — and for me it was truly safe, because Father Joe is a gay man. I always worship at St. Columba’s when we visit the mountains. I cherish the precious minutes I spend with Father Joe. The photo above may be a little out of focus, but I know you can see the love.

Father Joe announced this morning: “We’re going to have a karaoke sermon.” Seated next to me, Carmen groaned in mock annoyance. In the choir stall, Alan pushed a button. The music began to play, and Father Joe invited us to join him. “When you know the chorus, sing it with me”, he said — but I’ve long known this song by heart. I didn’t need to learn the chorus.

I met Father Joe in 2008 during my state’s passionate battle for and against same-sex marriage. I was working hard for marriage equality in my hometown. In gratitude, Father Joe offered me a CD of Trio hits. When I heard “One Man’s Hands,” I pictured the gay men and lesbians who had felt alone and helpless their whole lives. I celebrated the fact that now they and their straight allies were coming together in common cause. That year, “two and two and fifty” almost won a victory in my state — almost, but not quite. The struggle continued, but now more powerfully because now we had built a movement.

Fast forward two years. By the summer of 2010, I had reported my pastor, left my church, recovered from the most dangerous impact of clergy sexual misconduct (an eating disorder), and begun to equip myself for this work. But except for the leaders of The Hope of Survivors and Tamar’s Voice, I didn’t know a single survivor. I live in a very large city, and I couldn’t find even one other survivor. I felt so small and helpless — but I also felt called to this work. The lyrics to “One Man’s Hands” took on a new meaning. I was only one survivor, but I knew I would find another, and then two more, and then fifty…

We’ve just finished the third annual Clergy Sexual Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, and what a month it has been! I’ve had the privilege to work with Erik Campano (see my stories here, here, and here), I’m now connected with many other leaders in the Hope of Survivors network, and I’m in conversation with a young survivor whose courage would absolutely knock you over. This work is hard, there’s so much to do, and we are still a very small army. Small — but strong and growing. We are committed, we are united, and when two and two and fifty make a million, we will see the day of truth, justice, and healing come round.

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