Speaking OUT to end clergy sexual misconduct.

Archive for the ‘Impact of CSA’ Category

The Gift of Trauma

I’m stepping away from this work. It’s not that the work is finished; the church is still unsafe for vulnerable people. Thankfully many survivors are now speaking their truth. When one of us needs to lay down the burden, others are ready to pick it up. I’ve worked alongside some of today’s most effective victims and survivors, and I can attest to the power of their work. I no longer have any hope in church, but I have hope in the leaders I’ve met.

As I work on healing from the trauma, I am grateful for friends who have helped me reflect on its meaning. “The gift of trauma,” I said to one of them last week, “is that it enables us to create safe spaces for others.” I know what it feels like to be deeply traumatized, to feel paralyzed by fear 24 hours a day, to find myself destroying friendships and alienating family members because I felt I couldn’t trust anyone. During this time, the only safety I had was the presence of other trauma survivors. When I felt crazy, they made me feel sane; when I felt broken, they made me feel I could put myself back together. Eventually I realized I was doing the same for them. Even when I was still a hot mess of impairment, I was helping others build a sense of safety. I will always be grateful for this double gift: the sense of safety I got from other survivors, and the blessing of knowing I was giving it in return.

With love and thanks to all who have supported me in five years of writing.

 

Three New Resources

Dear friends, I am happy to share three new resources for survivors. 

Not in Our Church has informative and inspiring articles on topics from awareness to prevention to healing. The writing is good, and the website is gorgeous. Well worth a visit.

The Miller Spotlight features new reflections from former Baptist missionary Dee Ann Miller, the author of the classic How Little We Knew: Collusion and Confusion with Sexual Misconduct (1993, Prescott Press).

Survivors Standing Tall gives survivors a place to tell their stories through words, images, music, or any creative format. The creator of this site, Barbara Graber, edited the survivors’ resource website Our Stories Untold from 2013-2017.

Broken and Beautiful: One Survivor’s Story

Broken and beautiful: that’s what we are. Broken and Beautiful is also the title of a new book by CSA survivor Kristal Chalmers and her mother, Eileen Peters. Chalmers and Peters introduce their story by describing the Japanese art of kintsugi: “Instead of discarding a beautiful bowl that has been broken, they use gold to repair it, creating a vessel that is unique and even more valuable.” Rather than seeing breakage as something to hide, Kintsugi artists treat the breaks as part of the history and identity of a ceramic work. 

The same is true for us. Our wounds and healing become part of who we are. 

I’m highlighting this superb book for three reasons.

First, Kristal Chalmers describes her experience of abuse through two lenses at once. She shares what she felt at the time, but she also shares her current understanding of what happened. At the time, Kristal took her offender’s alternating warmth and coldness to heart; she believed what he told her about herself; she even blamed herself for the abuse. Two years later, she writes, “I know that he’d crossed a moral and professional boundary and had been grooming me for many months.” It took Kristal a great deal of time, study, and strong, loving support from her family and others, to reach this level of clarity. At the end of each chapter, Kristal and Eileen add their notes “for further reading,” sharing excerpts from some of the most important non-academic writings about clergy sexual abuse.

Second, Broken and Beautiful looks at CSA through the lens of spiritual warfare, a unique perspective among the survivor accounts I’ve read. Some readers may be unfamiliar or even uncomfortable with this perspective. In my rational mind, I question whether we’re really surrounded by demons and angels, but I’ve had enough personal experiences that I remain open to the idea. After all, who’s to say spiritual warfare isn’t real? The authors’ words helped me see trauma bonding in a new light:

“…the Bible speaks of soul ties when it talks about souls being knit together, or becoming one flesh. A soul tie … ties two souls together in the spiritual realm. Godly soul ties can draw a married couple together and knit their hearts to each other. Ungodly soul ties can cause a beaten and abused woman to attach to a man from whom, in the natural realm, she would run. In the demonic world, unholy soul ties serve as a bridge between two people through which evil can pass.”

In this light, Chalmers shows how a specific method of prayer freed her from this bond. 

“I [asked] God to forgive and cancel any ground or permission I had given over to Satan. I declared that the demons had no right in my life and commanded them to leave. I claimed the victory that Jesus’ death had won on Calvary, and immediately felt freedom!”

Third, the book doesn’t just recount the experience of abuse and shunning, it gives equal time to the arduous process of grieving. It was two years before Kristal Chalmers was able to journal again, but once that door was opened, the words poured out. In the sixth chapter, Kristal shares some of her words from the first three months of journaling, two years after she left her church. We follow her chaotic emotions, we remember our turbulent feelings even after many years of healing, and we feel a little less alone. “Can’t seem to get the grief or sadness or bewilderment out of my mind,” Kristal writes at one point. Another day she writes “I want to … cry, eat, and watch Netflix until bed…”; another day she writes “I keep having dreams,” even a dream about zombies. But she also writes, “When I look back now, I see that it was the beginning of freedom” and “I can’t end [a journal] entry without being grateful for God has done. Come and see what God has done!”

Indeed, come and see what God has done! You can find Broken and Beautiful on Amazon or on Eileen’s and Kristal’s website, MyVoiceBack.com. The Kindle edition includes live links to the resources on their website. 


Christmas can be difficult for anyone; it can be especially painful if you are dealing with current abuse by a religious leader, or if you’re healing from that abuse. If you are struggling, please know that it will get better. More important, the world is going to need you, your voice, and your story. If you are having suicidal thoughts, please seek support from someone you trust, or call a hotline for help. Readers in the U.S. can call 1-800-273-8255. Canadian readers can call 1-833-456-4566; UK readers can find help here; Australian readers can find help here.

 

Pastor or Predator? Sexual Misconduct in Youth Ministry.

Kudos to Princeton Theological Seminary! Their Institute for Youth Ministry recently invited six leaders to submit responses to the topic on clergy sexual abuse in youth ministry. The series, “Pastor or Predator? Sexual Misconduct in Youth Ministry.,” was published this week. 

Here are the highlights. To read the whole essay, just click on the author’s name.

Linda Crockett says that the church often shortcuts justice by urging survivors to forgive too soon. As a result,  “victims carry the burden of shame that rightfully belongs to the offender.” Crockett urges the church to help young people recognize the red flags of sexual abuse. Although youth programs often each about the dangers of substance abuse, “we shy away from frank discussion about sexual offenders and how they operate. … We don’t tell them most offenders are not strangers, but people in our families, churches, neighborhoods, schools, and sports clubs.” 

Sharon Ellis Davis shares for the first time that “my Black Church experience also includes my being the victim of childhood sexual abuse by ‘men of God.’” She says, “It was the secret I was determined to hold onto no matter how much this abuse had negatively impacted my life choices… I could not, and I would not go against the ‘men of God.’ “ Ellis Davis only began to heal when she found a wise, compassionate listener who was willing to be a holder of her long-kept secret. As she healed, she was able to become a holder for others’ secrets as well. She reminds youth leaders that “many times we are… called to be holders” even if we “may not have adequately dealt with [our] own childhood victimization and are now forced to remember while providing care for others.

Hillary Scarsella writes, “Sexual abuse and assault are silencing.” She explains: the offender and the religious institution work hard to silence survivors, but survivors also silence themselves because of the stigma surrounding the experience of sexual assault. “We need to make it our regular practice to talk about sexual violence accurately, sensitively, and often,” she says, “because talking about abuse and assault has a significant degree of power to prevent and stop both.” The kind of speech we need, says Scarsella, “is the kind that believes and respects victims and survivors, the kind that empowers youth to love and protect their bodies.”

Justin Holcomb offers biblical encouragement to survivors dealing with the stages of aftermath of sexual abuse. He assures survivors that “what happened to them is not their fault. They are not to blame. They did not deserve it. They are not responsible for what happened to them. Nobody had the right to violate them… They were sinned against.” To survivors who despair of ever healing, Holcomb reminds them, “God promises a hope and a future.”

When Wes Ellis was in the 7th grade, his “funny, likeable” youth pastor inspired him to go into youth ministry. In college, Ellis was devastated to learn that this minister had sexually assaulted several young woman who had been Ellis’ friends in youth group. Ellis offers a clear, challenging theological response to clergy sexual abuse. “For me to come to terms with my own story,” he writes, “is to accept that the person who was eventually imprisoned for sexual misconduct… was the same person who mentored me, cared for me, and helped me to find my calling. He was not a monster, but a human being like me. … In recognizing his actions as sin… I am forced to face the sin of which I myself am capable.” At the same time, Ellis urges readers to “not treat this as an abstract philsophical problem or a problem of mere policy, but as a real human experience.”

I am honored to be the sixth voice in this series. I share the case study of a young woman who became suicidal when the church tried to silence her complaint against a youth minister, and I offer a series of steps the church must take to protect the young people in its care, including age-appropriate boundary training for youth and regular, vigorous discussions of this topic by the adults in the congregation.  

As I researched my piece, I discovered two great resources. 

1. Author and clergy spouse Sabrena Klausman has a wonderful piece entitled “Dangerous Volunteers: Understanding Signs of Sexual Abuse in Youth Ministry.”  She says the church MUST do a better job screening, monitoring, and training the clergy, staff, and volunteers who work with youth.

2. Tim Challies spells out “6 Reasons Why Sexual Predators Target Churches.”  It’s not a hopeful essay. Challies points out the deeply rooted structural issues that put children and teens at risk in just about any church. But it’s required reading for anyone who wants to solve the problem.

Anger Rises to the Surface

It’s been two and a half weeks since I learned of Scott’s defrocking and eleven days since the congregational meeting. I’m relieved that the church is free of a dangerous priest, I’m grateful that the bishop called me directly to share the news, and I’m feeling validated since he finally dropped the veil of secrecy around my complaint.

Relieved, grateful, and validated: I wish that’s all I were feeling. I’ve been trying to write a relieved, grateful, validated response to the bishop’s words. But every attempt came out brittle, formal, and fake. Last night, I finally realized why.

Because I’m ANGRY. Once I got over the miracle that the bishop shared the truth at all, I start looking at what he said about my story. And what did he say? That what happened to me wasn’t that big of a deal, and that he still believes he was right to keep it from the congregation. 

WHO IS HE to say that Scott’s offenses against me “didn’t rise to the level of a Title IV complaint”? What kind of yardstick did he use? Does the church keep a manual that says if it’s only words, or if there’s only one complaint, then it’s okay to brush it under the carpet? (In 2010, the bishop actually told me that’s why he chose a “pastoral” response instead of invoking the canons). What if a priest deliberately misconstrues a directive from the bishop in order to continue meeting with his favorite congregants? What if he spends years working to gain a congregant’s trust, then misjudges and springs the trap too soon? What if he openly tells her that she’s part of a years-long pattern of inappropriate behavior toward “beautiful women”? Is a predator less guilty because a particular prey escaped without physical injury? 

The bishop ignored Scott’s pattern of grooming, instead focusing on a few words that he spoke to me on a specific day in 2008. Even worse, he ignored the impact of Scott’s behavior. Author Marilyn Peterson, in her book At Personal Risk: Boundary Violations in Professional-Client Relationships (Norton, 1992), says that the only reliable measure is the harm an offense causes to the victim. “Determining severity by content alone does not allow a violation to be identified as legitimate or valid unless and until it has progressed to the most severe and overt extreme. … To get a truer, more comprehensive picture, it is essential that degree of pain felt by clients be measured.” My injuries at the time — a serious eating disorder and a diagnosis of PTSD — were severe. Six years after the church closed the case, I’m still trying to process what Scott and the church did to me. Does this not signal an offense worthy of a Title IV response, and of a stronger warning to Scott’s next congregation?

And why did the bishop think the congregation didn’t need to know? At last Tuesday’s meeting he told us, “I made a measured decision [not to disclose].” He was vague as to how he measured it, but he has spoken clearly on this question before. When I brought my complaint, he was extremely reluctant to inform the congregation, protesting “he’s the dean of my cathedral!” Church scandals drive people and dollars away, and there was a lot at stake with this congregation. The bishop may have thought he could prevent this damage with secrecy. (So, how’s that working out?) Two years later, I was in the room when he told a group of clergy that this kind of news would be a “body blow” to a congregation — as if a group of full-grown Christian adults would be too weak to deal with hard truth. 

The bishop decided to avoid the harsh official sentences, placing Scott under pastoral direction instead.  “I [required] that he not do certain ministerial functions, and [required] him to do certain other things to address the behavior.” First of all, isn’t that what suspension is — a temporary ban from exercising some or all of the gifts of ordained ministry? Second, why use vague language like “certain ministerial functions”? Why not name those functions, as he did with me in January of 2010? The day I filed my complaint, the bishop told me that Scott was forbidden to offer pastoral counseling during the investigation. Two months later, he extended that ban for another 12 to 18 months. When a church’s senior minister is not allowed to do pastoral counseling, the congregation has a right and a need to know.  

Toward the end of last Tuesday’s meeting, the bishop had harsh words for the people of St Paul’s. “I’m going to be brutally honest with you,” he said. “We’ve had two complaints in the past six years, and it has not been easy for those who have been the complainants. I think this community can do a better job.” What?!? How can the bishop blame the congregation for responding badly to something that officially “never happened”? Instead of disclosing the truth, the bishop left my reputation in the hands of the priest who was then writhing under the humiliating restraints of pastoral direction. What did he think Scott was going to say about me? Now, six years later, he blames the congregation for not being nicer to me? I’m going to be brutally honest with you, bishop: you set those good people up for failure. You don’t owe them a scolding; you owe them an apology.

Finally, the bishop admitted that his official silence was no match for the real voices of hurting, angry people. “What I’ve come to realize is how broadly both Richardson and the complainant had talked about the matter.” He shouldn’t have been surprised; this is exactly what I told him I would do. When he wrapped up my case, I warned him that I was going to tell my friends why I was leaving the church. “I can’t carry the burden of this toxic secret any longer,” I said. He told me that if I did, I would “lose control” of the information. He was right; my words to a few trusted friends triggered an ugly wave of ostracism. I stopped talking for a while; I now speak through this blog. Although I’m not writing for my old churchmates, it seems that a few of them read it. If my strong voice helped the bishop find his, then I’ve done something right and I’m proud.

The waters are starting to settle. In my next post, I’ll be sharing the power and beauty of a very different kind of voice in response to clergy misconduct. Stay tuned.

 

Unitarian Universalist Association: Awakened by One Bold Survivor

Plenty of churches get it wrong when it comes to clergy sexual misconduct. Who’s getting it right?

The Unitarian Universalist Association (UUA) is blazing a trail that other churches would do well to follow. They just wrapped up their 54th annual General Assembly, “Building a New Way.” In a move that may be unprecedented in any faith tradition, the UUA GA program included not one but three workshops on clergy sexual misconduct, as well as a plenary address by UUA trustee Susan Weaver on the church’s new initiatives.

These were the workshops:
* In Sexually Safer Congregations: Building a New Commitment, the Rev. Debra Haffner, co-founder of the Religious Institute on Sexual Morality, Justice, and Healing, shared the UUA’s new process, goals, and model policies, and urged UU congregations to renew their commitment to preventing misconduct and abuse. UU World senior editor Michelle Bates Deakin had written in 2013 about early steps in this effort.
* In Building Restorative Justice in Cases of Clergy Sexual Misconduct, the leaders of the UU Safety Net described the steps they are taking to improve the church’s process for dealing with clergy sexual misconduct. UU World senior editor Elaine McArdle summed up this workshop here.
* In Clergy Sexual Misconduct: Breaking the Silence, clergy and lay leaders shared the Sacred Listening Process that leaders in Nashville are developing along the lines of the StoryCorps model.

The UUA’s 2015 program reflects decades of dedicated hard work. The church in the 1970s “could feel like a carnival or a Roman Bacchanal” in the words of UU minister Deborah J. Pope-Lance. By the 1990s, things were beginning to change. Individual UU ministers were beginning to write about the need for appropriate boundaries and standards of sexual ethics, as Pope-Lance did here, and as the Rev. Sam Trumbore did here. At the 2000 General Assembly, then-Executive Vice President Kay Montgomery offered a public apology to victims and survivors of sexual misconduct by UU clergy. Over the next two decades the UUA moved forward in many areas.

But according to survivors, only in the past decade has the UUA made real progress. In this effort, no survivor has been more influential than Anna Belle Leiserson of Nashville. In 1993, disappointed with the UUA’s response to her complaint, she asked church leaders for changes in the process. She stayed with the church and became a leader, speaking at General Assemblies and serving on panels. Eventually, the quiet resistance of church leaders wore her down. In 2006, she writes, “I gave up. Or so I thought.” But a few months later, she suddenly realized that her congregation — First Unitarian Universalist Church of Nashville, or FUUN — had “a powerhouse of potential activists.” In 2007, Leiserson led this team to create the UU Safety Net. After a slow start, which Leiserson writes about here, the Nashville effort has become a model for the national church.

One of Leiserson’s partners in this effort was FUUN’s minister, the Rev. Gail Seavey. She had served as an after-pastor in several settings early in her career, and had inexplicably thrived. She talks about her surprising success here, and about the lessons she learned from the challenging role of after-pastor. Another Safety Net leader, Dr. Doug Pasto-Crosby, has written about why the church tends to ignore and discredit the voices of survivors. He also writes about the traumatic impact on congregations after an instance of clergy sexual misconduct. Pasto-Crosby insists that the congregation can only heal when they help the survivor to heal. “Restoring the connection between survivors and their church community is the most important work a congregation needs to do after ministerial misconduct.”

When I named this blog “Survivors Awaken the Church,” I imagined it as a future event. Together, we survivors will awaken the church. But the awakening has already begun. Thanks to the brave and persistent Anna Belle Leiserson, the Unitarian Universalist Church has opened its eyes.

“There are no secrets in a healthy church.”

In April, I learned of a complaint of sexual misconduct against another minister at my former church. Earlier this month the bishop resolved the matter: the offender will retire and leave the church. He’ll no longer have license to serve as an ordained minister in my former denomination. Letters from the bishop and the offender were sent to the congregation. The bishop’s letter said this: “To be available to any who wish to be in conversation with me about this, I will be present after the 10:30 a.m. worship service on Sunday, August 31.”

I very much wish to be in conversation with the bishop about this! So this morning, for the first time since December 2009, I attended the Sunday service at my former church. It hurt to be there — it literally hurt. Halfway through the service I realized I ached all over, as if I had just run a marathon.

And then I strode into the middle of the social hour crowd to get a cup of coffee.

And then I walked into the Great Hall for the forum. I sat at a table in the back of the room with an older couple. The woman told me, “I think the bishop should have kept it quiet. I don’t know any of the facts, but I think he should have handled it privately.” The man said, “I don’t know the facts either, but I’ll find out — I’m having lunch with Pastor Lindquist [the offender] on Friday.” The woman said, “I don’t know the complainant. I wonder how old she is?” (“Why does that matter?” I asked.) The man said, “Some people are just so quick to take offense and complain.”

These were Lindquist’s people. As it turned out, the whole room was filled with Lindquist’s people. They were angry, and some of them got ugly. But the bishop showed courage and leadership from beginning to end. I haven’t always felt kindly toward him — we’ve definitely had our conflicts — but today I feel nothing but gratitude.

The bishop started by acknowledging the anger in the room — toward the offender, and toward himself, and toward the complainant. Next he promised to stay as long as we needed him. “No matter how long this takes,” he said. “I’ll be the last person to leave.” He spent the next fifteen minutes explaining the church’s complicated process for handling complaints. He said he could not discuss the complaint itself, nor the evidence, nor anything about the complainant. “I really try to do the right thing,” he said. “The great fear is not that we won’t get it perfectly right, but that we’ll get it perfectly wrong. So I strive to get it approximately right.” He said we were having this meeting because “there are no secrets in a healthy church.”

Let me repeat the bishop’s extraordinary words: “There are no secrets in a healthy church.”

The bishop had already seen me in the audience. He must have wondered what I intended. He may have wondered if I would expose the secret of my complaint and the admission of guilt from my offender. But I was only here to listen. Before I said a word, I wanted to hear the bishop, and hear the congregation’s response.

The bishop opened it up for questions. The “People’s Warden” was the first to speak. “Why didn’t you figure out a way for Pastor Lindquist to stay?” she pleaded. “I’ve heard from so many people about this. Everyone loves him. Why couldn’t he stay?”

The bishop was firm. “I wish this had never occurred, but it did. Something happened that was wrong, and someone was hurt, and there needed to be a response,” he said. “When we know the respondent it’s much harder because of all the good things we know. If we just had the facts in front of us, and we remove the knowledge of the respondent’s identity, it becomes a lot easier.”

The next question, from a man I’ll call Mr. Arrogant, began, “Since the Lutheran Church exonerated him…”  … and then the beginning of a long, grandstanding diatribe. (I cannot be objective about this man; he was one of the people who harmed me directly after my ordeal).

The bishop stopped the question right there. “The Lutheran church didn’t exonerate him. They simply found that the incident didn’t rise to the level that would trigger their disciplinary process.”

Mr. Arrogant tried to keep grandstanding, but the bishop held his ground. Then the man sitting next to Mr. Arrogant (I’ll call him Mr. Bully; he’s the one who posted an accusation on my Facebook wall) spoke up. “This is just like McCarthyism!” he said. “This is just a smear campaign against Pastor Lindquist!” A third man (I’ll call him Mr. Knee-Jerk) spoke of the “accusations” that “destroyed” Pastor Lindquist’s reputation.

The bishop stood firm against all of it. Any time he heard inflammatory language (e.g. “McCarthyism”), he nipped it in the bud. “Look at the first letter I sent,” he demanded. “Do you see the word ‘accuse’ anywhere in it? I simply stated the facts: that there had been a complaint, and that I was putting the respondent on administrative leave, without prejudice. I am not going to share the facts of the case with you, because then you all would do your own jury work. And for better or worse, that’s what you hired me to do.”

A man in the back of the room (I’ll call him Perry Mason) gave a little speech about burden of proof and types of evidence. “The highest type of evidence is material evidence,” he said. “Was any material evidence presented in this case?”

Material evidence? Of a verbal violation?? Generally the only evidence in these cases is the damage in the victim’s life. I sat silently, steam coming out of my ears. Thankfully, the bishop kept a cooler head. “I’m not going to speak to the evidence,” he said. “In this instance, it was a different denomination that looked at the evidence.” But he pointed out that in cases of church discipline, “Clergy don’t have the same civil rights as you and I do in the courts.”

A woman to my right asked, “Why couldn’t this have been handled in your office as a conversation between the two parties?”

The bishop said that it is almost never helpful to make the complainant come face to face with her offender. He said if he had done that in this case, “I would be committing a Title IV violation.”

A man walked forward from the far corner of the room. “I’m a new congregant,” he said. “I don’t know any of the people or the facts, but I do know that the church doesn’t just throw out people who cause harm. There are people in this church who fought against civil rights, and there are people who fought against gay rights, and they’re still part of the church. We forgive them and we keep them in the family. Why can’t we do that here?”

The bishop responded. “The complainant is part of this process,” he insisted, “and the complainant deserves justice. Clergy take vows to be obedient to the canons of the church. When we do something contrary to those vows, there has to be a response.”

A woman (I’ll call her Mary) raised her hand. “I’m not officially a member of this congregation,” she said. “I’m not even Episcopalian. I’m a Catholic theologian. But my husband attends this church, and I consider it my home too. So I hope you’ll hear what I’m about to say. You all are telling the bishop you wish he would have kept it a secret. You all are wounded because a priest you love is now gone. But look what happened within my church. Because bishops didn’t have the courage to disclose, but instead sent predator priests quietly away to other churches, look how many children’s lives were destroyed. We need transparency! Your bishop may not have gotten this perfectly right, but the bishops in the Catholic church got it perfectly wrong.”

Many years ago, as I sat at my first meeting of the bishop’s Diocesan Council, he said, “I want to hear your voices. I don’t want you to silence yourself even if you’re going to say or ask something controversial. Follow the urging of the Holy Spirit here. If you have something to say and your heart is pounding and your hands are sweating at the idea of saying it, that’s the Holy Spirit — and you need to say it.”

As I sat listening to Pastor Lindquist’s defenders, and to the bishop’s insistence on justice, and to Mary’s call for transparency and truth, my heart started pounding a mile a minute. I knew it was time to speak.

And the bishop did the most courageous thing of all: he saw my raised hand, and he called on me. My voice was shaking, and I was awkward and inarticulate, but I managed to convey a few words of truth. I thanked the bishop for the courage to disclose and to stand in front of a hurting congregation, absorbing their pain and anger. I acknowledged the pain in the room. “Pastor Lindquist was beloved,” I said. I thanked Mary for reminding us how important transparency is — and I used the bishop’s own words, “There are no secrets in a healthy church.” I told the gathered crowd, “I hope this won’t be the end of the conversation. I’m not a member of this congregation any more, but I hope the conversation continues.” And I turned to the bishop and said once more, “Thank you.”

The bishop began to move toward closure. “What this was not,” he said, “was an effort to convince you that I’m right. What this is is about being in church. The church, like our Savior, has been wounded.” We heal, he said, by coming together.

The bishop invited the church’s new priest-in-charge to speak. She told us, “This is an especially difficult issue for clergy. The new Title IV is much more strict. Anyone who has been ordained for a decade or more has probably done something that could raise a complaint.  We see this process and we think, ‘That could have been me.’  It sometimes feels unfair to clergy — but to be fair, that’s what we signed up for when we took our vows.”

She then turned to the bishop. “Some people have asked me if we can celebrate Pastor X’s legacy by having a farewell party for him.”

GOOD LORD. A PARTY?? For a man who has caused so much harm to a vulnerable congregant???

The bishop spoke sense. “The church should not be doing that. We have a complainant who has been hurt. The minister has admitted fault, and this is part of the consequences.”

A woman to my right spoke up. “I appreciate this forum,” she said. “I’m glad you gave us a chance to speak. Now we do need to move on.”

“Yes,” said the bishop. “In the fullness of time.”

He said sadly, this will not be the last complaint he’ll adjudicate as a bishop. And then he promised that he will always disclose the truth, and he’ll always invite the congregation to work through their pain together with him.

The bishop was true to his word. He stayed as long as we needed him — nearly two hours. I don’t know if he was the last to leave, because I was one of the first. Even four years later, it still takes courage just to be in the room with some of those people.

So, did the bishop get this meeting “approximately right?”

No.

He got it perfectly right.

When the bishop handled my complaint four years ago, he erred by insisting on secrecy. He can never undo that decision, and he can’t undo the harm he caused me as a result. But because of his courage today, he has restored a piece of my faith in the institutional church. He heard my voice. Even though he didn’t always like what I was saying, he listened. He couldn’t offer healing to me, but his courage makes healing possible for the next victim at my church. Because I suffered and the bishop heard my voice, another injured woman received better justice.

Today, I took another mile forward in my journey toward peace.

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